


I Don't Regret

by LikeTotesSecret



Series: Regrets [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, I am aware this is a cliche, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, LGBTQ+ characters, M/M, No one is actually raped, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Transphobia, i don't care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LikeTotesSecret/pseuds/LikeTotesSecret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins had led a very long life indeed, so it was far from a surprise when he awoke in the afterlife. </p><p>It's very hard to say 'no' to a Vala, regardless of who you are. Especially when they're telling you it's your destiny to go back in time.</p><p>So although he doesn't really want to, Bilbo Baggins (as well as those who were once part of what was known as the Company of Thorin Oakenshield and the Fellowship of the Ring, though he does not know this) must make a choice.</p><p>Bilbo Baggins does not regret anything.</p><p>But perhaps this Vala is right.</p><p>It could always be worse, but it can also always be better.</p><p>(Yes, cliche time-travel fic. Yes, cliche fix-it. In case you're curious and lazy, no, not all of them choose to go back.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Autumns That There Were

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, possibly terrible.
> 
> You have been warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prologue rewritten as of 2/5/18.

Bilbo Baggins had spent a great deal of time in the company of Elves in his lifetime, and as such his perception of many things had been greatly influenced by the Elven mindset. The Elves were a surprisingly close-minded people, nearly as secretive and distrustful as the Dwarves were rumored to be, and their stories and histories reflected this. Even the great Elrond Half-Elven, scholar and historian that he was, tended toward tales of an Elven Arda, of Elven death and tragedy and love.

So Bilbo had spent the last twenty years of his very long life being told tales of white shores, of great forests and trees as far as the eye could see. An afterlife to dream of for Elves, he was sure. But Bilbo Baggins, no matter how hard it was to forget, was not an Elf.

He had smiled at his storytellers, in the absent way of the very elderly, and waited patiently for an afterlife very different than the ones the Elves of Imladris had described.

So when he opens his eyes to the sight of hard-packed earth beneath his feet, he does not hesitate to begin walking down the lane.

Before him, fields stretch, flourishing green, gold, lavender, and crimson. To the west, a great lake nearly glows under the striking sun, and to the east, a sprawling forest reaches for the stunningly blue sky. In the distance, great mountains soar, white-capped peaks disappearing into their stormy shawls.

He knows this road.

He stops before a familiar gate. The wood is is worn, but well tended, and the pine mailbox mounted upon the post beside it has the words _Bag End_ carved into it in his father’s careful calligraphy. He trails his fingers over the letters, their edges smoothed by more than a century of wear.

There is no sound but the soft whistling of the wind to direct his thoughts. His gaze slips from the box to the mountains in the distance, clouded and mysterious.

_What is life without regrets, after all?_

It was not a voice, per say, and it was continuing a conversation they had never started. However, Bilbo knew deep in his being that it was talking to him.

_A chance not taken, a wrong turn too many. And how are we to know that this isn’t the best possible outcome?_

“How are we to know this isn’t the worst?” It wasn’t really an argument, simply a thought. He had considered this a great deal over the years, after all. Eighty years was a long time by anyone’s standards.

_It can always be worse._

“Then by that logic, it can also always be better, can it not?” A hesitation, then-

 _Perhaps._ A figure stepped up beside him, leaning on the railing to join him in taking in the mountain range beyond the fields.

_You can see where this road leads._

He can. The path beneath his feet winds its way through the colorful fields until it disappears in the far distance, just below the base of a peak set apart from the rest, its white peak free of the storm clouds that cover the rest.

“I thought the Dwarves had to wait separate, for the end of all this.”

 _They do._ A gentle pressure on his shoulder, like a hand placed in comfort, though the figure had not moved. _It will be a very long journey for you should you choose this path._

“I do not fear the journey.”

_But you fear what you shall find at the end of it._

A small smile quirks his lips, sad more than anything else. “Isn’t that what we all fear, in the end?” He hesitates.

_Speak your mind, child. You owe me no reverence._

“You said if I choose that path. What does that mean? Far as I can tell, it’s the only path around.”

An impression of a smile.

_Is it?_

Bilbo frowns and looks about himself. The road he had walked already is shrouded in some sort of philosophical mist and he dismisses it out of hand. He already knows he can’t go back. 

His gaze happens upon his hand, resting still upon the worn wood of the gate.

_A choice lies before you, Bilbo Baggins._

“I suppose it does,” he murmurs, turning slightly to run his fingers over the latch. The door of Bag End sits just ajar, old hinges crooning in the faint breeze.

“What lays beyond? What lies at the end of that path?”

_The future._

He scoffs faintly and lets his eyes fall shut, blocking out the view of his long-loved smial.

“And behind that door?”

_Your destiny. The purpose you were shaped for._

“And what is that? What destiny beyond what I have already fulfilled could possibly lie before a dead Hobbit?”

_Change is in your soul, Bilbo Baggins. You have longed for it all your life. That is what we offer you. Just a chance._

“If it’s my destiny, I haven’t got much of a choice, have I? ‘Change’.” His scoff sounds more like a sob this time. “I know what it is you are asking of me. ‘Change’. A heavy word indeed. What if I don’t want change?”

_You may choose to walk the path that lies before you. You shall always have the choice to reject your fate. Eighty years ago, child, you could have chosen to lock your door._

“And if I do, this time? If I choose to walk this path- to ‘lock my door’- what will happen?”

_The world will go on. As is its nature._

He glances at the lonely mountain. “A choice.”

The wood of the gate is smooth and welcoming, the latch beneath his fingers familiar.

“Why?” For a long moment, there is no answer. He hesitates, then clarifies, voice breaking slightly. “Why me?”

The response, when he gets it, is almost hesitant.

 _Who can trust kings and gods to change the world?_ An impression of a smile, nearly self-deprecatory. _’Tis not us who creates change, child. This story begins and ends with the little people. It begins in a hole in the ground, with a Hobbit. Here, it could end. With a very old Hobbit sailing off to the West, at the very end._

“I was not alone.”

_Of course you weren’t. None of us are. Not even Eru Ilúvatar is alone. And you never shall be, no matter the path you choose._

“The people I met on our quest for the Lonely Mountain eighty years ago were not my friends, great lord.” His voice is muted, throat clogged with emotion. “To say I would not be alone with them- they would be strangers in familiar skin, malevolent spirits occupying the shells of long-dead loved ones.” He turns fully to face the mountain once more, a quiet anger building in his chest.

“That doesn’t sound like a second chance, my lord. That sounds like torture of the highest degree. To be trapped, _alone_ , in a familiar world that neither knows you nor cares to learn.” He takes a deep breath, anger easing, and lets it out in an explosive sigh.

“I made my peace with those I could not save, my lord, and I did it a very long time ago,” he says quietly. “The wounds, though deep, have long since scarred over.” His hand stroked absentmindedly over the gate, and he automatically turned to watch the door once more.

“I shall always miss them, great lord. But I no longer bleed for them.”

A long moment passes, the wind their only companion.

_Others shall walk this road with you, Bilbo Baggins, should you choose to take it. You shall not be alone._

He stroked the latch one last time.

_You have already made your choice, child. You know it, in your heart of hearts._

The wind eased. The door creaked to a stop. The Vala no longer stood beside him.

He is left alone, staring at the door. At the worn green paint, the long-tarnished brass doorknob, the designs carved into the frame by his father’s careful hands, spelling out love in a tongue none but his mother had ever truly understood. At the home his father had built with his own hands and his own love, that his mother might never be alone.

He swallows back tears.

The latch squeaks as he lifts the old metal out of its cradle. The steps leading up to the door crunch beneath his beloved weight.

The hinges creak as the door eases open fully, the walls echoing with the sound of his footsteps. His fingers trail over remnants of home he had nearly forgotten.

The light pouring in through the windows dims and grays as he makes his way, slowly and painfully, to where the sitting room stands empty.

As his fingers graze the fabric of an armchair which hadn’t been in such good condition since he had been fifty, warmth springs up at his back, a fire blazing in the grate which had not been there a moment before. 

A gentle rain begins pattering the foggy glass of the windows as a book he had finished reading most of a century before rustles to page five on a side table beside his favorite armchair. A mug of tea begins to steam beside a plate of fresh biscuits.

He sits slowly in his armchair as the curls on his feet wash honey-blond and reaches for his teacup as the wrinkles on his hands smooth painlessly away.

 _I don’t regret it,_ he thinks to himself, _but if there is a chance to make it better..._

_Well. I have always longed for change._

The pages on the calendar on the wall before him rustles while he isn’t looking, and by the time his gaze lands upon it, it is quite happily declaring

_2 Winterfilth S.R. 1340_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 Winterfilth S.R. 1340- 23 September (according to our calender) T.A. 2940 (the day after Bilbo's 50th birthday)
> 
> This should be updated in the very near future. All other chapters will be much longer, this one just needed to be cut off here to properly introduce the fic. Will it be any less convoluted/confusing/irritating or better written?
> 
> No promises.
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say 'hi' at my Tumblr!](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com)


	2. To These Memories I Will Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo gets his shit together, and meets up with someone unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 rewritten as of 2/5/18.
> 
> -
> 
> Took a bit longer than expected to get out, but I wanted to get their emotional reactions as right as I could. Lots of editing for me, but I don't doubt that there are still really stupid mistakes in here. If you spot one, feel free to point it out. They irritate me when I spot them in my own writing.
> 
> Translations available as mouseovers or at the bottom.

He isn’t sure how long he sits before the fire, clutching at a cold cup of tea as though it is the only thing tethering him to reality, but the flames have long been reduced to embers by the time a faint crack of thunder startles him from his reverie. Stale tea slops over the edge of the cup, soaking his housecoat and sliding unpleasantly between his thighs.

He sets the cup back in its saucer with a _click_ that seems deafening against the silence of the last few hours and stands shakily, shrugging the housecoat off his shoulders to abandon it in his chair.

He moves to the window to stare at the early autumn thunderstorm, trailing fingertips across the glossy wood of his side table on the way in an attempt to ground himself.

He leans his forehead against the glass, the shock of cold against his skin helping to anchor him to some sort of sanity. He took a moment to not think at all, simply tracking the path of raindrops as they made their way to the sill. 

For hours, possibilities had spun in his head, overwhelming and suffocating. They had gotten him no closer to figuring out what to do.

The rain gave him no answers.

He pushes away from the sill, running frustrated hands through his curls and snatching up his housecoat to throw in the general direction of his bedroom. He sits back down heavily in his chair, rattling his teacup, and clutches so tightly at the arms that his knuckles turn white. For long moments he simply sits, watching the embers burn themselves out, as the air loses its heat rapidly and the smell of rain begins to seep through the room.

Somewhere along the line, he had begun swallowing around a lump. Tears threaten to slip out, but he stubbornly chokes them back, trying to think of nothing at all. This works for a moment. Long enough for a banging on his front door to startle him out of his spiral of misery.

He ducks into the hallway to stare through the dark at his front door. When nothing further happens, he hurries down the hall to yank the door open, prepared to rip into his visitor for appearing at his smial so late on such a miserable night.

“Hello?” He squints out into the rain, wishing he had remembered to bring a candle.

“Cousin Bilbo?”

Bilbo froze, staring at the dark shape before him in astonishment as he recognized the voice.

“ _R-Razanur?_ ”

“ _Ach, Bilbacer!_ ”

Bilbo stumbles back as a very wet Peregrin Took tackles him in a powerful embrace, barely missing the edge of a side-table as he crashes to the ground.

“ _Bilbacer, ville corbec tal-_ you… you…” Pippin sucks in a desperate breath as he pushes his weight off of his cousin and hovers over him, nearly choking on his words. “ _Bilba…_ ”

“ _Razanur_ , what…? Please, _Razar,_ calm down, how…?”

Pippin shoves himself up with such strength he nearly stumbles straight back out the still-open door, before he manages to control his motion and yank the door shut behind him. He leans heavily against the wood, sucking in air as though he can’t quite manage to get enough.

“Bi- Bil-“

Bilbo shoved himself to his feet, rushing to gather Pippin to his chest.

“Pippin- _Razar_ , come now. _Frendaen cre, frendaen cre._ You must calm yourself, my dear. Come, come, let’s get you sat down. I’ll brew you a nice pot of tea, yes?”

Pippin clutches at his forearms as he leads him toward the chair before the hearth. 

“Bilbo...”

A wet sob catches in Pippin’s throat as Bilbo pulls gently away to add tinder and a couple of logs to the fire and stir it back to life. Light flares, and a Pippin not a day over thirty is thrown into stark relief.

This Peregrin Took, despite his youthful face, is nothing like the child he most clearly remembers him as- a bright and somewhat thoughtless eleven-year-old who knew no hardships or heartache. Nor is he the Peregrin Took of faded memory- older and harder, hurt and bleeding from the fresh memory of fallen comrades and a war he should never have had to fight in, still underage yet a lord and a knight and a war-leader and choking back tears as one of his closest friends and relatives left Middle Earth forever.

This Hobbit is neither of those Hobbits. This is not the Peregrin Took of old, young and carefree. Nor is this the Peregrin Took of directly after the great War of the Ring, hurt and sobbing and pushing so hard to continue despite his broken heart. This is a much older version of both, choking back tears and panic and shuttering the pain behind tightly squeezed eyelids.

“Valar above, Pippin. What happened to you?” Bilbo murmurs, coming back to clutch at his cousin’s forearms. “How are you here?”

Pippin sucks in one last harsh breath, and opens his eyes, clear and sharp and tight.

“The Valar. The same way you came, I’m assuming.” Pippin says, clearly trying to push away even as his fingers refuse to release Bilbo’s forearms. “Said something about how I had ‘a choice’ and all that.  And, well. I figured I could take it. I didn’t really expect them to put me in my twenty-eight-year-old body and leave me st-stranded here.” 

He sucks in another breath and attempts to hold it, squeezing his eyes shut. It stutters back out in way that sounds very much like sobs. “Valar, I cannot seem to control my emotions, was it truly this bad when I was this age? No wonder I was such a f-fucking idiot.”

“ _Razanur..._ ”

Pippin shakes his head tightly. “No, no. I can take this. I can do this. It’s just some… emotions. I can handle this. I should be able to handle this, I am a Hobbit of a hundred and three, not a child of twenty-three. I have lived a whole life through. I can... take this.”

One by one, Pippin’s fingers unclench as he draws in long, slow breaths, the stuttering lessening with each one. 

“This is… incredibly difficult,” he says lowly. “ They have left me with two sets of memories.”

Bilbo frowns, not understanding. Pippin smiles a bit bitterly at him.

“I awoke to a man my heart told me was my brother telling me to wake up, but my mind told me that he really didn’t look all that much like the portrait of my grandda my father kept above the mantelpiece. My mind tells me of my sisters, my father, my family… none of them exist here.”

He stares at the fire much the same way Bilbo had been doing minutes before.

“Here, my family is a man who was once the grandfather I never knew as my brother, a nephew who was once my father who is eight years old and truly a moron if these new memories are accurate, a cousin who is now not only his own grand-uncle, but _Frodo’s direct uncle_ and Valar-“

Pippin allows his head to droop toward the arm of the chair. “I don’t care how bloody old I am or who I became or if I was ever the bloody Thain,” Pippin buries his face in his hands. 

“I want Merry.”

“We’ll find him, Pippin. We’ll find him.” Bilbo reassures him gently, noting in some corner of his mind that it was probably a good thing Pippin hadn’t been able to control the suddenly heightened emotions of childhood, because otherwise he probably would have succumbed to hopelessness.

Bilbo takes a moment to sift through his own memories and does spot a few that seem a little out of place: a lively cousin with golden hair and a Brandybuck smile who hadn’t existed where he did in his last lifetime, a Meriadoc Brandybuck, the third child of the eight born to his Aunt Mirabella where once there had only been seven. 

“He’ll be in Buckland, yes?”

Pippin lets his hands fall and at last manages a full, deep breath as he ponders this.

“No.”

“No?”

“He’ll know that I, at least, am here too. He’ll go to Bree, and wait for me there. We’ll need to meet him there.”

“Why Bree? Buckland is closer.”

Pippin shakes his head. “It’s dangerous for us to be around people who knew us in this lifetime right now. Merry is no fool, and if he’s having anywhere near as much difficulty as I am sorting out two different lifetimes then he’ll know to stay away. He’ll make some excuse, and get to where it’ll be less obvious he’s acting out of character.”

Bilbo stands, trying desperately to reconcile that bright-faced eleven-year-old and this… knight, this lord, this Thain before him, an old man trapped in the body of a child and facing it head-on, deciding how his other half would think. He fails miserably, and decides to let it go.

This Peregrin Took is a stranger to him, but that does not matter. He is family.

Frodo is not here, he knows. It does not take a combing of his memories to figure that out. Merry and Pippin are alone in a world they have never known, and the uncle in him finds that entirely unacceptable.

“Then we’ll go to Bree. We’ll find him. There are some things we should do, anyway. I’ll tell your father I need your help carrying things or somesuch, you’re young enough here that being a pack pony is a reasonable enough way to spend your time, especially if it gets you out of your parents’ hair for a while.” Bilbo flashes a quick smile at him, and Pippin returns it weakly.

“These are peaceful times, for the most part- far more peaceful than the times you were raised in the first time. They shan’t worry about you on the road there.”

“It’ll take weeks on foot,” Pippin says quietly.

Bilbo shakes his head. 

“Taking ponies is too suspicious right now. We mustn’t draw attention to ourselves. We can pick some up in Bree, few will question us there. There are things we should do before the quest, though in truth I am not entirely sure what at the moment.”  
He touches Pippin’s cheek gently. “But three heads are better than two, and I’d like to have the two greatest strategic minds the Shire and Buckland have ever produced on my side when I decide.”

He lets a moment pass in silence before he claps the younger Hobbit on the knee,

“Now. That tea, I should think. I know I could use a cuppa.” Bilbo stands to head to the kitchen the room over. 

Pippin releases a somewhat hoarse laugh, swallowing thickly as though tears were once again rising.

“That’s always your solution, Bilbo.”

“That’s because tea makes everything better, Peregrin.” Bilbo replies primly, turning away to fuss with the teapot so that Pippin can’t see the smile playing at the edges of his lips.

“I believe that’s actually pipeweed, Cousin.” Pippin retorted, relaxing into his chair.

“As delightful as pipeweed is, I am afraid you are wrong. Tea is obviously the superior of the two.”

They bicker playfully as the water boils and as Bilbo prepares the tea, trying to forget how odd it was to be speaking like this. When they both sit with steaming cups of tea, Pippin glances at Bilbo over the rim of his cup.

“Bilbo…”

“Hm?”

“Why are we here?”

Bilbo hesitates, staring at the hot liquid swirling within the porcelain.

“I don’t... really know. The Vala I spoke to said that it was my destiny or somesuch nonsense. I… didn’t really want to come back, to be honest.” He pauses, waiting subconsciously for judgment he knows won’t come.

Pippin smiles wearily at him. “I didn’t really want to either. But… I felt responsible, somehow. I wanted things to go right this time.”

He laughs, affection in every line of his body. “And besides, I knew Merry would come back. They wouldn’t let us talk, but I’ve lived an entire lifetime with him. I’ve never not known him. I knew he’d feel the same responsibility I do. I couldn’t let him do this without me.”

“So you… have lived an entire lifetime. You became Thain, you said?”

Pippin snorts suddenly. “Oh, yes. Thainship, wife, children, the whole nine yards. My son married Sam’s daughter. We were all very amused by that.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows furrow. “Merry…?”

Pippin’s smile softens. “He became Master of Buckland. We didn’t manage to spend a lot of time together in our middle years.”

“So you never…”

A touch of sadness crosses the younger Hobbit’s face.

“We never really had the chance. Responsibilities, you know? I loved my wife, and I know Merry loved Estella. And we saw each other, when occasion called for it. It was enough. And the children were worth it.” 

Pippin looks away, hands clenching on the teacup. “Is it selfish, that I gave them up for this? For more time with Merry, for another chance at being a hero?”

Bilbo lays a hand on his knee. 

“Perhaps. Perhaps it is time that you are selfish. And you and I both know that anyone who comes back is not doing it for a chance at being a hero. You forget that I knew you very well as a child.”

He smiles at him. “I know your heart, Peregrin Took, and you did not do this for attention or for fame. You did this for love. For the love of your people, for the love of Middle Earth, for the love of Arda. For the love of Merry.”

“And yet I gave up my wife. My children. My family. For this.”

“I gave up my family as well, _Razar_. I gave up Frodo, and if I ever knew Samwise Gamgee then I know that he would have known Frodo’s heart better than Frodo himself and would have followed him, so I gave him up too. I gave up everything as well, and though I shall always regret it, I think I made the right decision.”

A soft, somewhat bitter chuckle escaped him. “Selfish? Probably. But a chance to change things for the better, not just for me but for all of Middle-Earth… though it may feel selfish, I believe that it was all we could do in our positions.”

He sits back and shrugs. “And it is not as if we can go back and change our decisions. And so we must live with them, and continue making these decisions to the best of our ability.”

“And if we make the wrong ones?”

“Then we do our best to make up for them.” Bilbo says firmly, and drains his tea in one long gulp.

“It is time for bed, cousin of mine. We have a long day before us, and it is best that we are as rested as we can be.”

And with that, he sets his teacup aside and moves to get ready for bed, leaving Pippin before the fire, staring into his teacup as though it holds the answers he seeks.

-

It is positively pouring by the time Bilbo drags himself from his warm bed in the morning. The darkness of the storm blocks out any light the dawn would have provided, so he fumbles with his tinderbox for a moment in an effort to light his lamp, nearly knocking it off his nightstand in the process.

He stumbles down the hall, cursing softly, and squints into the shadows of the kitchen. Thunder rumbles and lightning flashes, and he sighs as the empty room lights up, wishing that it had at least have had the good grace to stop raining.

“ _Bilbacer?_ ” A sleepy voice mumbles from behind him, and he turns to usher Pippin into the sitting room with a smile.

“Get a fire going, yes? Don’t burn yourself. I’ll get started on breakfast while you do that, then we can pack and head to Tuckborough to let your family know we’ll be gone awhile.”

“Bit of a detour, isn’t it?” Pippin asks drowsily, moving obediently to the hearth.

“No more than half a day,” Bilbo reminds him. “And if we don’t your family will go mad searching for you, and probably drag the Brandywine in search of your body. You don’t want to do that to them.”

Pippin blinks at him and stares for a few seconds before his brain seemingly catches up with him and he winces.

“No, of course not. Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”

Bilbo offers him an understanding smile.

“Go on. Get that fire going.”

Bilbo wanders into the nearest pantry, lifting his lamp higher in an attempt to make out what a fifty-year-old version of himself would have in his stores. The remnants of what he recognizes as a birthday feast stand out to him, and he picks out the last of the elaborate braided bread and a jar of blackberry jam before ducking back into the kitchen to retrieve the eggs he knew he’d seen the night before.

“ _Bilba?_ ”

“ _Ret, Razar?_ ”

“Want me to light some of the lamps?”

“Certainly. Could use a little light in here.”

Despite the oppressive darkness of the storm clouds outside the windows, the smial lights up nicely as the smell of fried eggs spreads through it and the house begins to warm. Pippin wanders back in just as Bilbo is sliding the cooked eggs onto plates for them both. Pippin leans against the frame of the pass through and folds his arms across his chest as he watches him.

“Fancy bread,” he comments. Bilbo shrugs.

“Birthday party two days ago. It must have been left over.”

Pippin shifts, uncrossing his arms and taking the plate Bilbo is offering.

“I forget, sometimes, how wealthy you were even before your ‘adventure’,” he says quietly, staring at the eggs and the jam-covered bread.

Bilbo hesitates, then brushes past him into the sitting room to settle in his armchair.

“Yes, well... the Thainship may not be much compared with the kings of old, but being fourth in line- fifth, actually, now that you’re here- certainly has its perks.”

“Yes...” Pippin murmurs, staring at his food. “It has its drawbacks too, though.”

Bilbo freezes with the bread halfway to his mouth, then gently sets it back down on his plate.

“Ah, yes. You are second in line here, aren’t you? And since you’re over twenty-five...”

“I can’t back out of it, yes. I would have had to give it up before I turned twenty-five or have been born further from the seat. If something happens to the current Thain or to my… brother…” He sighs heavily and moves to plop into the seat beside his cousin. 

“I have had quite enough of power over others, Bilbo. I didn’t really want the responsibility of being Thain the first time, but to have to do it again?”

Bilbo stays quiet, watching him.

“My own bloody father won’t even be overage until… what… 1366? I’ll remain second in line until then, that’s more than twenty years. Anything could happen. And I’ll be tied here permanently if it does.”

“You don’t know anything’s going to happen, Pippin,” Bilbo says, but Pippin shakes his head.

“It’s not just that. You know I’m supposed to be contactable at all times. When I go with you to regain the Lonely Mountain, I won’t exactly be contactable, will I? If I ever want to see my family again afterward, I’ll be in a whole damn world of trouble. Especially since I’m still underage here, you know? And you’ll never be able to come back once it becomes known that you ran off with the underage second in line, will you?”

Bilbo hesitates, then sighs softly. “Truth be told, _Razarcer_ , I never really intended on returning.”

Pippin stares at him numbly.

“I’ve lived a happy life here in the Shire. But I always wanted more. First, it was what I felt was an obligation tying me to this place. Then it was Frodo. But I never really wanted to stay here forever,” he confesses.

“I have a chance, now, to be happy. To find where I truly belong without being bogged down by guilt and uncertainty. And I have every intention of making full use of this opportunity.”

Bilbo returns to his breakfast, leaving his cousin to ponder his answer.

-

“I had forgotten how woefully unprepared I was for this adventure,” Bilbo laments as he stops in front of the pass through into the sitting room with his bag on his shoulder. “I’ll never know how I survived that blasted journey.”

Pippin looks up as he appears and giggles softly at what he was wearing. “You have naught less… colorful?”

Bilbo looks down at his yellow vest in askance. “It would appear I was much fonder of bright colors in my younger years than I remember.”

Pippin’s smile softens as he stands to tug gently at the vest. “Ach, I don’t mind. Naught in these wildernesses to hurt us too badly anyway, and besides… it reminds me of Merry.”

As Bilbo opens his mouth to ask about this, Pippin positively skips past him to the front door, oddly chipper after the sobriety of their earlier conversation, and Bilbo is once again forcibly reminded of a bright eleven-year-old with a heart of gold and disposition it seemed naught could dampen. 

“Let’s go, then! Merry’s waiting!”

“Cloak, _cer_ , or you shall be frozen through by the time we reach Tuckborough,” Bilbo reminds him amusedly.

Pippin flushes and snatches a cloak off of a nearby hook.

“Of course. I knew that. I was just testing you. To see if you remembered.”

Bilbo snorts as he pulls his own cloak over his pack to provide its contents additional protection from the rain. “Of course you were.” 

He pauses to waggle his house key in Pippin’s direction.

“Just have to stop by Holman’s house to drop off the key to this place... goodness gracious, dear Hamfast will not have even been hired on has his apprentice yet, will he?”

Pippin shrugs cheerfully, pulling open the door.

“In truth, I’m just glad I won’t have to deal with Sam’s ma. Wonderful Hobbit, but bloody terrifying. I’ve never in my life felt so pressured to take another slice of pie.”

The sound of their laughter, muffled by the storm as it was, followed them down the lane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda wish it was longer, but I wanted to cut it off here, when they left, and adding any more would have just been dragging it out painfully.
> 
> Lemme know what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> [Why I use Westron.](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/post/108036864278/tolkien-headcanons-my-approach-to-westron-in-my)
> 
>  
> 
> Westron Translations (Yes, most of this is made up by me. Don't judge me dammit.)
> 
> Razanur- Pippin's name in Westron, according to Tolkien  
> Razar- shortening of Pippin's name  
> Bilba- Bilbo's name in Westron, accordiing to Tolkien  
> -cer- a suffix tacked onto the ends of names, meaning 'cousin' (so 'Bilbacer' is basically 'Cousin Bilbo')  
> Cer- the noun version of the suffix  
> Ville corbec tal- You won't believe  
> Frendaen cre- Calm down  
> Ret- yes
> 
> Random thing to explain things you might not know:  
> Smial- Hobbit-holes, so any house that is below-ground  
> Holman- Holman Greenhand, Bilbo's gardener before Hamfast 'Gaffer' Gamgee took over. Hamfast's cousin. Holman took Hamfast in as his apprentice the same year as Bilbo left on his 'adventure'  
> [An explanation of the line for the Thainship.](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/post/109733714998/line-for-the-thainship-when-the-company-leaves)
> 
>  
> 
> [Ask me questions on my Tumblr!](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> Leave a comment! Tell me your deepest (and shallowest, that's cool too) thoughts!


	3. You Can Search Far and Wide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting you know you've been waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rewritten as of 2/5/18.
> 
> -
> 
> I said I would make the chapter longer so I damn well made the chapter longer. Sukkit, asshole brain.
> 
> Lemme know if you like it?
> 
> Translations available as mouseovers or at the bottom.

Spring has, at last, broken fully upon the Shire. Pollen tints the air golden, wrinkling many a Hobbit nose and driving the very elderly inside. The children, however, are out in full force in the afternoon sunlight, darting through the marketplace and across the roads in wild games with no names and lots of shrieking.

Bilbo is not free of the shrieking, unfortunately, despite being fifty-one and having no children of his own. Merry and Pippin had spent the last couple of hours being the young things they biologically were, and causing exactly the amount of chaos Hobbiton had come to expect of them in the meantime.

“ _Please_ , Pippin, do not drop the eggs, we need those!”

Pippin whirls around to grin at him, basket swinging behind him carelessly. “I’ll protect your eggs, Master Baggins! With my life! That scoundrel Merry shall never lay his dirty paws on your precious-”

He yelps and dives behind a shrub as he spots a figure coming up the path. “I’m not here!” He hisses just a bit too loud.

Bilbo rolls his eyes fondly and turns to smile at where Gandalf the Grey has walked up beside him.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon, Master Hobbit,” Gandalf returns, amusement glittering in his eyes.

“ _Razanur!_ ”

Merry appears, charging up between them covered in leaves and only barely keeping a grip on the basket on his arm.

“ _Vaten cre ile i Branda-nînt, garte mev!_ ”

Pippin yelps and scrambles out of his shrub, careening up the hill and nearly dropping his basket of eggs. Merry snarls and gives chase.

“I’ll save your eggs, Bilbo! I’ll save them!” Pippin screeches as he crests the hill and disappears over the other side. Seconds later Merry does too, and Bilbo smiles peaceably as his screams turn to pleads for mercy and wild laughter.

“Yours?” Gandalf asks curiously, peering down at him. Bilbo chokes on nothing and chuckles awkwardly.

“Goodness, no. I’m a bit young yet to have children who are as old as they. Cousins, though Merry is a bit of a distant one for me.”

He pauses and smiles up at Gandalf.

“Oh dear, where _are_ my manners? Bilbo Baggins, at your service, sir.” He sketches a little bow in his direction.

“No, no, ‘tis no fault of yours, Master Baggins,” Gandalf chortles. “‘Twas I who approached you without ceremony.”

He draws himself up slightly and beams down at Bilbo. “I am Gandalf,” he tells him with some grandeur.

Bilbo comes to a full stop, fighting back a smile and affecting surprise.

“Gandalf? Old Took’s Gandalf?”

Gandalf seems surprised, but delighted nonetheless.

“The very same, Master Baggins. I confess, I am surprised you recall me at all. You were very young indeed last I walked the paths of the Shire.”

Bilbo shrugs with an embarrassed little smile. “Your fireworks were very memorable, Master Gandalf, and ‘tis difficult to forget the most interesting person you’ve ever met.”

Bilbo begins walking again so as to miss whatever expression Gandalf offers in response to that.

“I was very good friends with your grandfather, Master Baggins, and I knew your mother rather well. Did she ever speak of me?”

“Oh, Master Gandalf, she told me endless stories of her adventures, and you featured in several of them.” Bilbo laughed. “And not always in the most flattering of lights.”

He sighs a bit wistfully, a bit of a smile still lingering. “But that was Mother for you. She never really worried about painting the heroes of her stories as perfection personified.”

“Indeed she did not,” Gandalf mumbles.

“I fear I remember little of her stories of you. Father never quite approved of her stories, though he tried to be supportive, and I decided in my tweens that I had grown too old for adventure. By the time I wished for Mother’s stories again... well.”

He watches the road for a moment. “She was sick for a very long time. And after Father’s death, she was never quite the same.”

“Hm. Yes, I fear lost love often takes victims where it should not. I shall forever regret that I was not able to visit her one last time.”

Before Bilbo can respond, Merry and Pippin reappear and scramble behind him, ducking slightly as though attempting to hide from something. Bilbo blinks at them, but just as he opens his mouth to question them, his answer stomps out from behind the hill and brandishes a rolling pin at the three of them.

“ _Bilba._ ”

“Ah... _Tungracorâ..._ ” He makes a sound somewhere between a cough and a clearing of his throat and offers his relative a sheepish smile.

Rudigar Bolger scowls at him and eyes his cousins aggressively before turning away with a huff and stomping back around the hill. Bilbo turns to scowl at Merry and Pippin.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing!”

“We swear!”

“We didn’t even touch him! I think he just wanted to put us in his pie!”

“You know that’s what he does to young Hobbits!”

Bilbo sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Uncle Roddy is not a Troll, lads.”

“Of course he’s not,” Merry says dismissively. “Trolls can’t cook. I never said he can’t cook.”

“We just said he eats Hobbits,” Pippin adds sagely.

“His meat pies _are_ suspiciously delicious,” Bilbo ponders mock-seriously. Pippin nods wildly.

“No pork has ever tasted as good as his pies do. They’re obviously not pork.”

Abruptly, Merry’s eyes widen and he kicks Pippin in the shin, and only being intimately familiar with his tells allows Bilbo to recognize that his shock is put-on.

“ _Razar. Sinchet._ ”

Pippin’s gapes, a twinkle in his eye the only thing giving him away, and stutters, “Oh no. ‘Msorry, _Bilbacer_ , we didn't realize you were with someone. Pardon, sir, we didn't mean to interrupt.”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Master Gandalf, these are my cousins: Peregrin Took, son of Hildigrim Took and Rosa Baggins, and Meriadoc Brandybuck, son of Gorbadoc Brandybuck and Mirabella Took.”

Gandalf peers at them, eyes twinkling as he leans heavily on his staff. “A pleasure indeed. I knew all of your parents at one point or other. ”

Pippin’s smile turns a bit bitter and Bilbo almost misses Merry snatching up his cousin’s hand. Gandalf’s face fell slightly.

“Ah, yes. I heard about your father, Master Took. My condolences, he was a great Hobbit indeed.”

Pippin forces a grin back onto his face. “Ach, he went out the way he wanted to- fat and happy.”

“I heard no news of your mother, however. How is dear Rosa?”

Merry answers for his cousin. “We lost Aunt Rosa to the winter-sickness three years ago, Master Gandalf.”

The Wizard frowns heavily. “Sad news indeed. My apologies, Master Took, I did not mean to bring such sorrow to our first conversation.”

Pippin's smile tenses still further. “’Tis no problem at all. P’raps we should be movin’ on, though- it’s getting dark and we should really start supper if we’re planning on eating tonight.”

Bilbo smiles up at the Wizard. “You are welcome to join us if you please, Master Gandalf. We have plenty of food, and I believe we have some crumpets left over from tea.”

Gandalf smiles widely at him.

“Why, I’d love to. I do love crumpets.”

* * *

“This is incredibly strange,” Merry hisses to Bilbo as he passes him carrying the tray of crumpets to the sitting room.

“Doubly so for me,” Bilbo mutters, then takes the tray and nods back toward the kitchen as he tells Merry at normal volume to get started on supper.

“You never told us what you were planning on making,” Merry reminds him bemusedly. Bilbo shrugs.

“Surprise me. You’re creative.”

Merry snorts and wanders away, leaving Bilbo to settle the crumpets on the side table between his armchair and the chair on which Gandalf is perched uncomfortably, looking like a Giant in the Hobbit-sized chairs. The Hobbit pours the tea Pippin had prepared for them and carefully hands the china over before settling back.

“Now. I find myself doubting that it was pure coincidence that we encountered one another today, Master Gandalf. What did you need?”

Gandalf blinks at him, clearly thrown. “Now… why would you say that, Master Hobbit?”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. “I get the feeling that Wizards are in the habit of meeting with precisely who they mean to, Master Gandalf.”

Gandalf made an effort to gather himself and smiles a bit uncertainly at him. “I did not know that you recalled what I was, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo laughs. “Oh yes, Master Gandalf. It was hard to miss in Mother’s stories. Truly, though, as pleasant as this is, I would like to know why you wished to speak with me.”

The Wizard’s smile relaxes somewhat. “You are shrewd indeed, Master Baggins. I have something of a proposition for you, and your kin if they wish it.”

Bilbo raised an inquisitive eyebrow, fighting back a smile. “I’ll call them in.”

This time Gandalf’s ‘proposition’ is slightly more graceful than, “I am looking for someone to share in an adventure,” though if Bilbo i being perfectly honest it isn’t by a lot.

“You see I have certain… acquaintances that are in need of some… assistance in a number of… personal endeavors.”

Pippin laughs at the vaguely strained expression on the wizard’s face. “We are far from delicate, Master Gandalf. If you have need of fudging the details, feel free, but you need not fear we shall shatter at mention of the outside world.”

Gandalf smiles widely. “You are indeed an impressive Hobbit, Master Took. Very well, I fear I cannot reveal the details of this quest without the company’s leader. However, if you would be willing to house him and his kin overnight perhaps next… Mersday?... they can explain it in its entirety.”

Bilbo grins.

“Of course, Master Gandalf. I’ll have tea ready.”

* * *

Most of a week later, in the middle of packing for the trip, Merry poses a question.

“I have a question for you, Bilbo.” Merry says casually, looking over his shoulder at the mess spread across his bed.

“Hm?”

“How, precisely, are we supposed to cook for thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard in less than a day?”

Bilbo hesitates. “You know, we probably should have thought of that when we invited them.”

* * *

“ _Marcûe mev tal, fahl calt tsa cat dreten cre, Bilbasur_ ,” Holman Greenhand says rather grumpily as he hands over the tray of meat. “ _Er cre ej Razanursur ej Kalimacsur corb naka vuetake krete mev, âs corbevn câlt prishorek satar ri cre. Cûv te Arda cre seenv_? _Rot yevr i Tûknast ri cre ruten cre, Bilbasur._.”

Bilbo laughs. “ _Tal nana yevr, Trânram, âs andrecnet nanaen. Ri câlt cre mifne, set mil serine._ "

Holman huffs but can’t seem to repress a small, affectionate smile as he wanders off. Pippin sidles up to him as he sets the tray aside.

“He’s right, you know. People are talking. Wondering why we need so much food, who we’re hosting. After all, the only Hobbits with looser lips than the Sackville-Bagginses are the Tooks, as you well know.” “I know, Pippin. However, I fear we are not likely to be able to hide a company of thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard from the entirety of the Shire for a night, especially since we’re planning on disappearing with them for months on end directly afterward. Asking for enough food to feed an army will be the least of our worries. Not to mention, we’ll be gone for the worst of it, and if you come back-“ “Don’t.” Bilbo looks over, taking in Pippin’s suddenly closed-off face. “You have to decide eventually, Pippin,” he says gently. “I am well aware of that, Bilbo." Pippin's gaze fixes on the window, his face stony. "Believe me, cousin, no one knows that better than I.”

* * *

A knock at the door prompts all three Hobbits to freeze and stare at one another over the dining room table. All three remain silent for a moment.

“Well, I’m sure as shit not getting it.” Pippin informed them flatly. Merry nods in agreement and Bilbo scowls as both of his cousins stare expectantly at him.

“What is the bloody point of you two if you won’t do the grunt work,” he snaps as he pushes off the table in the direction of the door.

“To provide witty commentary to your life story!” Merry calls after him, and Bilbo grumbles under his breath about aggravating family members as his cousins burst into giggles in the other room.

The door swings open easily, silent on newly-oiled hinges, and Bilbo smiles at Gandalf.

“Good evening, Master Gandalf. May I take your cloak?”

Gandalf ducks inside, obediently handing over his cloak and inhaling deeply.

“My, my. Something does smell delicious.”

Bilbo smiles somewhat blandly. “Well, we weren’t certain how many we’d be hosting, so we took the liberty of asking some family of ours to assist in the preparations.” Both of them stop in the doorway to the now-empty dining room, Bilbo to stare in satisfaction and Gandalf in awe. “It should be enough, I think.”

Bilbo moves to straighten out a heaping plate of sliced ham as Gandalf gapes at the massive mound of food taking up the center of the table as it creaks beneath its weight.

“Master Gandalf!” Pippin skids into the room, nearly colliding with the Wizard. “Ah, there you are Master Gandalf. Do you know when our guests are arriving? And since we’ve certainly committed to hosting them, can you tell us how many of them there are? Because we only have so many rooms, and-“

Another knock rings through the house and Pippin goes white. “Oh no, that’s them. The rooms aren’t even close to ready. _KALI!_ ”

Pippin bolts from the room as Bilbo wipes his hands and shakes his head.

“Twelve.” Gandalf tells Bilbo rather belatedly. Bilbo blinks, hands freezing as they clutch at a towel, then nods with forced carelessness as he moves to answer the door.

“You should go hunt down the lads, detail familial ties and such so they know where to put everyone.”

“Perhaps I should-“ Gandalf’s protest is cut off as Bilbo hauls the door open. His eyes light up.

“Master Balin!”

“Why, I’ll be. Master Bilbo! This is certainly a surprise!”

Gandalf stared in astonishment as Balin stepped forward to clap Bilbo heartily on the shoulder.

“I never expected that you would be among the company we were hosting tonight. ‘Tis a good thing we gathered so much food to serve, if we are to be hosting a company of Dwarves,” Bilbo laughs.

Balin raises an eyebrow as he removes his cloak and hangs it on a nearby hook. “I rather fear what a Hobbit considers ‘enough’ for a company of Dwarves. I am certain your home would not be enough to hold what you consider to be enough for the same number of Hobbits, however.”

Bilbo laughed again, leading the way into the dining room. “Oh, no. Sixteen Hobbits? It would fit into the smial. However…” He stops once more in the pass through to allow Balin to gape. “It probably wouldn’t all fit on one table. Not without breaking it at least.”

Bilbo suppresses a laugh at the Dwarf’s dumbstruck expression.

“You cooked all of this?”

The Hobbit snorts. “Not a chance. Everything would have spoiled by the time I was finished. No, I enlisted my extensive family. Each made a dish, no one’s finances were strained, and everyone gets fed fresh food. The boys and I only baked a bit- most of the last few days were dedicated to preparing our finances and such. It wouldn’t do to be unprepared.”

“’Twould not, indeed,” Balin agrees rather faintly.

“You are familiar with Master Balin, Master Baggins?” Gandalf questions abruptly. Balin shakes himself and answers before Bilbo can.

“I stumbled upon Master Baggins and his young cousins on the road outside Bree, and the four of us travelled together for a time as I returned to the Blue Mountains.”

“Interesting. What was your business in Bree, if I may inquire, Master Baggins?” Gandalf says pleasantly, wary confusion shaping the lines of his face.

“Oh, this and that,” Bilbo responds dismissively as he moves toward the kitchen, Balin trailing after him, “you know, Hobbit things. Very dull. I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.”

“I was not under the impression that you were a merchant, Master Baggins. Or was I mistaken?”

“Oh, no,” Bilbo pauses to rummage in a cabinet, pulling out a very large tankard and tossing it to Balin without looking. The Dwarf laughs as he catches it easily, just as heavy knocks echo through the smial again.

“We’ve got it, Cousin!” Pippin and Merry chorus from the front hall. Bilbo scoffs softly and scurries toward the entryway, scrambling into the room just as Merry reaches for the doorknob.

“No, you most certainly do not. We may be familiar with Balin, but I will not inflict you on some poor, unsuspecting Dwarf.” He yanks the door open unceremoniously and smiles at the hulking Dwarf before him.

“Dwalin, son of Fundin. At your service,” he greets, stepping forward and offering a respectful nod.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” Bilbo gave a slight bow. “Good evening, Master Dwarf.”

Behind him, Merry and Pippin echo with their introductions, and Balin wanders into the entryway.

“Ah, there you are, Brother. I’d wondered where you wandered off to. Introductions through? Perhaps you’d help me gather tankards from the kitchen for our kin and company. I’m certain they’ll be here shortly, and thirsty besides.”

Dwalin raises an eyebrow as he pulls off his cloak and hands it gently to Bilbo, who stumbles slightly beneath the weight of the thick fabric but gets it hung up well enough.

“Boots off, please,” he orders absentmindedly, gesturing to a nearby corner.  “We do our level best to keep dirt and mud out of here, though with these two it gets more difficult by the day.”

Dwalin stares at his grinning cousins, recognition lighting his eyes. “You are-“

“Let’s get you to the kitchen, Master Dwalin!” Bilbo cuts in cheerfully, scurrying away before the massive Dwarf can open his mouth again. Balin trails after them, laughing, as Merry and Pippin thoroughly distract Gandalf.

“You knew they were here?” Dwalin asks Balin somewhat harshly. His brother’s eyes widen at the aggression in his tone.

“Well, yes. I didn’t think it was much consequence-”

“Dwalin was one of the only members of the Company to meet Merry and Pippin,” Bilbo cuts in. “Pippin told me. ‘Twas you and Glóin, was it not, Dwalin?”

“Aye,” he responded gruffly, staring at the wall through which Bilbo’s cousins’ laughter was still audible. “They were older. Harder. Warriors, then. But not old enough for it to make sense that they would be here.”

“They were not, before. Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took were meant to be born in 2982 and 2990 respectively. However, they were presented with the choice, same as us.” He stares wistfully in the direction of his family members. “And they have always been heroes.”

Dwalin’s brow furrows. “But, if their parents are as young as that would imply…”

Bilbo shakes his head, leaning against the counter. “Their original parents are very young indeed, at this point in time. However, it would seem the Valar saw fit to fit them seamlessly into history. They are the children of their great-grandfathers, now, as brothers their grandparents never had. It… has not been easy on either of them.”

Another knock sounds.

“That’ll be Kíli and Fíli,” Dwalin tells him quietly. Bilbo blinks, and smiles softly.

“They remember?”

“They do indeed. We’ve… not told them much. We asked to wait for you, if you had returned.”

“Glóin did not return.” Balin informs him with a touch of sadness. “Nor did Óin, Bofur, Bombur, or Bifur, though I fear we do not know why.”

Bilbo shrugs, though the corners of his lips turned down. “They made their choice, and I cannot fault them for it.”

“That leaves me, Dori, and you as the only ones who remember the War of the Ring in its entirety,” Dwalin says with a heavy sigh, leaning against the wall as if it was all that was holding him up. “A heavy burden indeed.”

Aside from Merry and Pippin,” Bilbo tells him, lips twitching. “Though I fear it is not easy for them to discuss.”

“Wars never are, laddie,” Balin says with a heavy sigh. Before the dour conversation can continue, however, Fíli, Kíli, Merry, and Pippin careen into the kitchen, cackling.

“I like them!” Kíli declares enthusiastically, squeezing Pippin’s neck under his arm gently. “They’re just like us!”

“Can we keep them?” Merry asks Bilbo seriously, gripping Fíli’s wrist from beneath the Dwarf’s arm. “They’re adorable.”

“Excuse me, Hobbit,” Fíli contradicts, “Dashing, yes.”

“Majestic, yes,” Kíli adds.

“Remarkable,”

“Fantastic,”

“ _Stunning,”_

“ _Naturally.”_

“But adorable?”

“No, we’ll leave that to you two.”

Pippin scoffs and ducks out from under Kíli’s arm.

“Oh, they think they’re impressive, Merry.”

Merry chuckles and does the same. “Positively devilish, Pip.”

“They seem rather cocky, don’t you agree?”

“Egotistical, even.”

“I’d even go so far as to call them _swaggering,_ dear cousin.”

“Brash.”

“Overconfident.”

“ _Presumptuous.”_

Both young Dwarves make a highly offended sound at the back of their throats.

“Do they offer us insult, Fee?”

“I daresay they do, Kee.”

“Whatever shall we do about it, dear brother?”

“Why there is only one way to settle this score.”

They grin at the young Hobbits.

“I don’t want to know,” Bilbo announces loudly, just as another knock echoes. “You boys- take off the boots, leave them with the others. I’ll not have dirt traipsed through my home. Balin, Dwalin, you are welcome to start in on the food. I’m sure there will be plenty for all.” He turns a stern glare onto the four youngest. “All of you will wash your hands before you sit down at that table. I’ll have no dirty paws scrabbling at my fine china.”

Bilbo hides a smile as he catches Dwalin guiltily shifting his hands behind his back as he hurries toward the front door. Just behind the wood, a familiar voice was urgently saying, “Bombur, _get away from the door-”_

The door swings open and Bilbo just barely manages to leap back to avoid being crushed under the weight of two very embarrassed Dwarves. Another Dwarf, behind them, blinked and smiles at Bilbo peaceably.

“Good evening, Masters Dwarf.” He sketches a short bow as the two toppled Dwarves scramble to their feet. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

“I’m Bofur,” the most squashed of the three tells him cheerfully, dusting himself off, “and this is me cousin, Bombur,” the big Dwarf smiles guiltily at him, also dusting himself off, “and me brother, Bifur.” Bofur shoots Bilbo what seems to be a subconscious warning glance, clearly expecting Bilbo to say something about the axe embedded in his brother’s forehead, but Bilbo simply smiles pleasantly and gestures them inside.

“Several of your Company have already arrived and are in the dining room. I’m sure you can just follow the noise of my cousins. Boots over there, if you please, I do try to avoid tracking mud in my home where possible.”

Bilbo ducks hurriedly out of the entryway as they obey, scuttling to the kitchen to lean heavily on the kitchen counter with his eyes squeezed shut.

Bifur had died within months of the battle, Bilbo had found out from Glóin. Complications, he had called it, shrugging to indicate that he wasn’t quite clear on what Óin had meant by those words. Bilbo had understood, though- it was usually _complications_ that caused the death of loved ones in the Shire.

By the time Bilbo had left for the West, however, Glóin’s wee Gimli- who wasn’t anywhere near wee anymore- had informed him that Bofur and Bombur were still going strong.

Somehow that had hurt even more.

The others were, ironically, easy enough to get over. Dwalin, Balin, Fíli, and Kíli all remembered, as was clearly visible to a practiced eye. But these three were strangers, friendly but foreign. That probably hurt the most (more than children dead before their time, more than friends lost mere months after reconnecting, more than an acquaintance who could have been a friend if Bilbo had simply been less of a coward, if Dwalin had simply cared less what his cousin and leader thought).

Just as he swallowed back the lump in his throat, yet another knock sounded.

“I’ve got it!” He calls, hurrying toward the door. He pulls it open just as the Dwarf behind it raises a fist to knock again, and yet again barely managed to dodge as he stumbles forward, startled.

“Oh, heavens, my apologies,” they chorus. Bilbo grins at him.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

The returning smile is tired, but genuine. “Dori, son of Kori, at yours and your family’s. This is my younger brother Ori,” behind him, Ori smiles, equally tired, “And Óin and Glóin, sons of Gróin.”

Bilbo bows respectfully, shooting a worried glance at Ori and Dori and noting the obvious missing member.

“I hate to ask, Masters Dori and Ori, but if I could get a hand in the kitchen…?”

“Of course, Master Bilbo,” Ori responds promptly. Glóin opens his mouth, probably to offer his assistance as well, but Bilbo cut his words off, pretending he hadn’t seen.

“Masters Óin and Glóin, the rest of your Company is just down the hall in the dining room. You can just follow the shouting I imagine. If you will, Masters Dori and Ori.” Bilbo scurries off before any could object, and Dori and Ori follow easily.

“’Tis good to see you again, Bilbo,” Ori says softly as they duck into the darkened kitchen. “Truly.”

“Of course it is, Ori. It is wonderful that you are here. But you two look dreadful, and I’d wager it has to do with our favorite thief’s obvious absence. Where is Nori?”

Dori looks away. 

“We don’t know. He never showed up. We can’t find him anywhere, and he would never tell us where he was before he ended up back in the Blue Mountains. We don’t even know if he came back, or whether us coming back changed some small thing that led him to decide that he didn’t need to return home, or-” He sighs heavily. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Ori smiles sadly. “We can only hope he’ll turn up. Balin is carrying some spare contracts with him. He says one of them is for Nori, if he does. He won’t tell us who the others are for.”

Bilbo smiles. “Ah. Well, I can answer that. Come.” He leads them into the dining room, ducking a stray apple flying at his head. “Somewhere in this mess are my dear cousins. You’ll be able to pick them out eventually, short as they are. Have them introduce themselves to you, if you see them.”

Gandalf, unlike Merry and Pippin, is easy to pick out. The Wizard stands against the opposite pass through frame, chuckling at the chaos. Bilbo chooses to go completely around the dining room instead of wading through a sea of rowdy Dwarves to get to him.

“Ah, Master Baggins. Quite a lively bunch, aren’t they? I hadn’t imagined that you had encountered Master Balin before, however.”

Bilbo smiles at him. “Quite a coincidence, isn’t it? However, you said we were expecting twelve, correct? By my count, I see eleven Dwarves. We are missing one?”

Gandalf nods. “The leader of the Company. He is coming from a different  location, so I fear he may be somewhat delayed.”

Dori materializes behind them and offers Gandalf the tea on the tray before him, allowing Bilbo to slip away. Right before the Hobbit enters the hall, one last knock sounds, and the smial suddenly goes silent. Bilbo smiles, and hurries to the door. Behind him, twin shrieks accompany Merry and Pippin spilling out of the dining room to join him.

The door swings open on silent hinges.

Bilbo smiles at a wandering king.

“So you are our errant leader,” he says quietly.

Thorin Oakenshield smiles at him, relief washing over his face. “And you are our noble host,” he returns softly.

His smile threatened to split his face. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” This time, he offers no bow.

“Thorin, son of Thráin, at yours and your family’s.”

Merry and Pippin slink up beside him, eyeing Thorin suspiciously, and Bilbo catches the tail end of suspicious astonishment before the Dwarf’s face closes off cautiously.

“Ah, these are my dear cousins, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took,” he hurries to introduce. “Boys, this is Master Thorin.”

Pippin leans close to whisper theatrically into Bilbo’s ear. 

“He’s shorter than I pictured.”

This time the astonishment on Thorin’s face is clear and Pippin giggles.

“Evening, Master Thorin. Please excuse Pippin. He met Manners once, but they mutually agreed to have nothing to do with one another.” Merry says, amused. Pippin makes an offended noise.

“I am fantastic at manners. Know which fork to use and everything. Mum would’ve beat my head in if I wasn’t.”

Fíli and Kíli materialize behind them. “Uncle, you cost us our Hobbits,” Kíli whines.

“We’re taking them back.” Fíli informs them seriously. Together, they pick the young Hobbits up under their arms and haul them back into the dining room as they squeal and Bilbo laughs at them.

Still choking back chuckles, Bilbo turns back to Thorin. “Oh, dear. Come in, come in. My apologies.”

Thorin obeys, a gentle smile smile lurking in his eyes, and hangs up his cloak, finishing off the row of fabric. “A lovely home you have, Master Baggins.” He says quietly.

Bilbo smiles again, softly this time. “Perhaps you’ll show me your own at the end of this quest,” he returns just as quietly. He steps back. “Your Company is waiting, Master Thorin. There is food aplenty, and time to discuss this quest afterward. You must have travelled long. Help yourself.”

They do not touch as Thorin passes him, but he feels him nonetheless.

* * *

Kíli’s eyes had sparkled as he initiated the beat, and Bilbo couldn’t resist obediently offering his line which had set off the rowdy song the first time. This time, however, he simply laughs along as they toss their cutlery and dishes around, as Merry and Pippin shriek with laughter and clap along.

“Oh, I like them,” Pippin calls breathlessly as the Dwarves roar with laughter. “Can we keep them, Bilbo?”

Kíli catches him in a gentle headlock. “Oh, you aren’t getting rid of us.”

* * *

It doesn’t take long for the three Hobbits to skim the contracts and sign without question, leaving Balin beaming and Gandalf raising an eyebrow.

“Dessert, anyone?” Merry offers happily, and a cheer rose up.

“In the sitting room, then,” Bilbo orders with a laugh. “Merry, Pippin, fetch the trays, would you? Fíli, Kíli, if you’d assist?”

The four youngest obediently troop away as their elders move, chattering, into the sitting room and settle where they can.

“You should give us a song, Master Bilbo,” Bofur tells him, smiling. Bilbo laughs.

“Oh, I’m not sure I can compete with the lovely song you gave us earlier, Master Bofur.”

“Nonsense, laddie!” Glóin roars, clearly long past ‘tipsy’. “Give us a song, yeah?”

“Aye, Master Bilbo, give us a song!” Ori calls cheerfully. Bilbo laughs again, but can’t resist the softened lines of stress on Ori’s face.

“Oh, very well. If you insist.” He moves to his chair, inexplicably left unoccupied, and settles before the fire. Thorin, beside him, smiles minutely.

“I do not believe I have heard many of your people’s songs, Master Baggins,” he says quietly.

“Well, that will have to change,” Bilbo says softly, smiling at him. He closes his eyes, sorting through the years of music which had accumulated in his mind. “I hope that you don’t mind that it is not exactly a tavern song,” he calls to Bofur.

“Of course not, laddie!”

He takes a deep breath.

_South beyond the roiling Sea,_

_And East beyond the Mountains,_

_West beyond the fields of green,_

_And North past the horizon._

The youngest have drifted back into the room, bearing several heavy trays of sweets, but they linger in the doorway, listening.

_Far away and long ago_

_And fresh as morning dew,_

_Dark as sky in winter’s snow_

_And light as summer’s Sun._

The boys carefully set the trays down and move to sit before the fire at Bilbo’s feet, like children looking up at him.

_Far above the tallest tree_

_And deep below the roots,_

_Swift as Eagle, wild and free_

_And slow as growing Rose._

 

_Harsh as blade of glinting steel_

_And soft as gentle down,_

_Hearty as a midday meal_

_And light as clouds above._

 

_White as Sun’s eternal glow_

_And black as starless night,_

_And I can’t begin to know_

_What I shall see tonight._

Bilbo opens his eyes and grins at his cousins as the Dwarves begin to clap and hoot.

“Lovely song, Master Baggins.” Balin says, smiling. “Did you write it yourself?”

“Oh, no,” Bilbo laughs. “’Tis a song of our people. A very old one. From before the Wandering Days. I fear it is merely an excerpt- the song in its entirety is long forgotten, like much of our history before we settled in the Shire. Truly, it we don’t even know what it was about anymore. ‘Tis beautiful, however, so we remember what we can, and pass it down to our children.”

Ori smiles at him. “’Tis a noble enough goal for any people.”

“A noble goal indeed.” Thorin rumbles beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song by me. Because I'm overly attached. [Sung here.](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/post/114011917723/hereherehere-have-some-of-my-voice-do-you-like-it)
> 
> By me.
> 
> Yes. I know. You don't have to say it. I know.
> 
> [Why I use Westron.](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/post/108036864278/tolkien-headcanons-my-approach-to-westron-in-my)
> 
> Westron Translation
> 
> Razanur! Vaten cre ile i Branda-nînt, garte mev! - Peregrin! I am going to throw you in the Brandywine River!  
> Razar. Sinchet. - Pippin. Company.  
> Marcûe mev tal, fahl calt tsa cat dreten cre, Bilbasur. - I just don’t understand why you need this much food, Master Bilbo.  
> Er cre ej Razanursur ej Kalimacsur corb naka vuetake krete mev, âs corbevn câlt prishorek satar ri cre. Cûv te Arda cre seenv? - I know you and Master Peregrin and Master Meriadoc are rather strange, but who on earth are you hosting?  
> Rot yevr i Tûknast ri cre ruten cre, Bilbasur. - You’ve got half of the Took family cooking for you, Master Bilbo.  
> Tal nana yevr, Trânram, âs andrecnet nanaen. Ri câlt cre mifne, set mil serine. - Not quite half, Holman, but probably close enough. Thank you for this, I really appreciate it.  
> [Ask me questions over on my Tumblr!](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com)
> 
> Leave a comment! Tell me what you like and I might give it to you. Not in a sexual way. Probably. I guess it depends on how nice you are.
> 
> That would probably be more enticing if I could write porn.
> 
> Someday.
> 
> Someday.


	4. No More Words to Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politics are shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters have been reordered, both interludes moved to I Won’t Forget. Chapter rewritten as of 2/5/18.

It is pitch-black when he opens his eyes, and even with the enhanced vision granted to Dwarrows, it takes a few seconds for Kíli's vision to adjust enough for him to make out the shadowy figures hovering before the dresser on the other end of the room.

“Merry? Pippin?” He questions softly as he sits up, and the figures turn around guiltily.

“Sorry for waking you, Kíli, go back to sleep,” Merry murmurs, shutting the drawer he had been rummaging around in and stuffing something in his trouser pocket.

Kíli sits up, kicking Fíli deliberately in the process. “Something wrong?”

Fíli snuffles and jerked awake, long since trained to react poorly to those words.

“Everything’s fine,” Pippin whispers, “go back to sleep.”

Fíli sits up, already mostly awake, and Kíli can very nearly hear him frowning.

“Pippin? Merry? What are you doing in here?”

One of the Hobbits huffs out a irritated-sounding sigh.

“Just come with us,” one of them mutters, and moves soundlessly across the room and out the slightly-ajar door. Kíli shoots an unseen glance at his brother and stumbles to his feet, making significantly more noise than the Hobbits.

“Quiet, Kee,” Fíli mumbles, also moving to stand, “don’t wake Uncle.”

They slip from the room as quietly as possible and follow the shadowy shapes of the Hobbits as they move toward the front door. Their longer stride allows them to catch up easily, and Pippin opens the door just as they reach it.

Moonlight spills into the otherwise dark hall, shining brightly upon the Hobbits’ curls and glinting off the bright strands highlighting their hair. Fíli shoots him a glance as they slip through the narrow crack in the door and following, and Kíli shakes his head and joins them on the stoop, closing the door behind him.

“What’re we out here for, Pippin?” Kíli asks somewhat exasperatedly, staring out at the moonlit hills before them. 

Pippin shakes his head and takes the other Hobbit’s hand, dragging him away wordlessly. “Pippin?”

Fíli shrugs and follows again. Kíli groans and reluctantly trails behind them.

The four scramble up a surprisingly steep hill nearby and stand looking to the north, over unremarkable trees  
.  
“Pippin?” The query comes from Fíli this time, quietly questioning. Pippin cocks his head at the view and sighs heavily, then turns to look south, releasing Merry’s hand in the process. The Dwarves turn as well to follow his line of sight, and their breath catches in their throats.

What seems to be all of the Shire stretches before them, where just a few feet below them nothing more than a well-trodden road had lay. Crisp wind tugs at their long locks, bringing with it the scent of early spring blossoms and dew, as they stare over silvered hills and fields. Kíli shivers slightly and wraps his arms around himself, telling himself it is because of the chill of the wind.

“The farmers’ll be getting up soon,” Merry murmurs, reaching out once again to take Pippin’s hand. “Lots to do, still.”

“It’s tradition in the Shire,” Pippin finally explains, “to watch the sunrise together.”

“Family?” Kíli asks, puzzled. Merry shakes his head and looked toward the horizon.

“Everyone. When possible. Sunrise is a special time, after all.”

“All the world’s woken,” Pippin sings softly, not really following a tune.

A sad smile touches Merry’s lips. “It’s a new beginning every day. Another chance, another life. At dawn, today becomes yesterday, and the past becomes the past. At dawn, the future is now, and if you don’t take hold of it, it will take hold of you.”

“At dawn the world begins anew,” Pippin murmurs softly, sounding rather like he was reciting something, “You are reminded that though nothing can live forever, dark brings a new light, different than anything you’ve ever seen. And though this light may be unfamiliar, it has been made all the more beautiful by the darkness you have seen.”

All was silent for a moment. Even the wind seemed to have stopped blowing.

“That’s sort of ridiculously beautiful,” Fíli says. Pippin releases a startled snort.

“It was actually the very first bit of Common I learned.”

Kíli blinks at him. “Seems a bit complicated to start someone really young on.”

Pippin shakes his head. “I wasn’t as young as you think. Common’s not my first language.”

The Dwarves stare at him. Pippin laughs, his expression lightening. “My first language is _Aduni_ \- Westron in Common.”

“I started learning Common at… what, about twenty-two?” Merry glances up at the sky, clearly doing calculations in his head. “Something like that. Pip would have started later, I think, though not by much.”

Pippin nods. “The Brandybucks have more dealings with outside traders than the Tooks do, so while the Brandybucks focus on our borders we focus on our interior. It’s a good balance.”

“Generally,” Merry qualifies. Pippin snorts.

“Generally,” he agrees

* * *

.  
A soft knock on the door prompts Bilbo to look up from where his hands were clenched in the fabric of his pack.

“Bilbo? Are you awake?”

He blinks and it takes him a moment to identify the voice as Thorin’s.

“Oh. Er…” he stares blankly at his pack for a moment before shaking himself. “Sorry. Come in.”

The door creaks slightly as it opens. He watches the motion rather than the dark form within the frame.

“I seem to be short a couple of nephews.”

Thorin’s amused tone draws Bilbo’s gaze to his face at last, catching on the gentle smile pulling at his lips.

“They’re on the roof,” the Hobbit answers his unspoken question, carefully setting his pack aside and standing, “with Merry and Pippin.”

Thorin quirks an eyebrow at him.

“The roof?”

“Well, the top of the Hill.” He moves to shift a large, dusty stack of paper off his desk chair and gestures for the Dwarf to sit. “It forms the roof, though.”

“Why the roof?” Thorin askes, settling easily.

“Old Hobbit tradition. Greeting the sunrise.”

Thorin blinks at him, thrown.

“Really? Forgive me, but I’ve always had the impression that Hobbits were… late sleepers.”

“Lazy, you mean,” Bilbo corrects blandly, and Thorin winces. “No, I understand. But the majority of us are farmers, you realize, and farms do not tend themselves.””

“Of course,” Thorin says hurriedly. “I fear I am largely ignorant in terms of farming. Dwarves are not exactly known for their aptitude with hoes.”

Bilbo gave an acknowledging noise, sifting through the stack of paper in his hand.

“Early to bed and early to rise,” he says airily. “Plants are difficult to please and easy to offend. They require quite a lot of attention.”

The Dwarf cocks his head at him inquisitively.

“But you are not a farmer, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo sets the stack of paper aside.

“Indeed I am not. I was fortunate enough to have been born into a wealthy family. Quite luckily, frankly, the only affinity for plants I have shown is for my tomatoes.”

“I should have realized you come from wealth,” the Dwarf admits, “your home says it, if nothing else.”

Bilbo nods. “Since my father died, I have been head of the Baggins Family. Not that they've ever been pleased with that. My mother, on the other hand, was the eldest daughter of Old Took, and the Tooks have long been the leaders of the Shire as a whole.”

Thorin stares. “Leaders?”

A small smile crosses the Hobbit’s face.

“More a mayor than a king,” he qualifies. “He’s called a Thain.”

“Are you in line for… Thainship?” Thorin asks, interested.

Bilbo laughs.

“Technically. I’m fifth in line.”

“And… Pippin, was it? He is a Took, is he not?”

At this, Bilbo winces.

“That’s complicated, I’m afraid. Not really my place to speak of it. Safe to say, Pippin has made his choice.”

“I don’t recall them from before. Did you make amends with them here where you hadn’t before, or somesuch?”

“You wouldn’t know them. They hadn’t even been born yet the first time around. In fact, their parents had just been born!” Bilbo chortles to himself as Thorin gapes.

“I… don’t understand,” he admits. Bilbo shrugs.

“Something the Valar did, not really clear on the details myself. Anyway, neither of them are as young as they look.”

“How old are they?”

“Oh, truthfully I can’t remember. It really depends on if you count their ‘second life’. Their bodies, on the other hand… Merry is thirty-six, and Pippin is twenty-nine.”

The Dwarf frowns.

“Don’t Hobbits come of age at thirty-three?”

“Oh, yes. Keep in mind, though, that this is their second life. Counting that, Pippin is only a little younger than me, and Merry is certainly older.”

“Ah…” Thorin looks oddly hesitant, glancing around uncomfortably. “And... how old are you?”

"Oh, heavens, that's the question of the hour, isn't it? Nearly one hundred and forty, I'd say- not exactly sure. I wasn't keeping very close track of the years near the end. I don't count the years in... 'this life'. Very few of my memories are different in this world, all of them relating to Merry and Pippin. It is more like I had a couple of memories added than like I've lived two lives, as I know it is for the boys."

“None of my memories are any different,” the Dwarf confesses. “It feels like I fell asleep and woke up two years hence.”

“I’m not surprised. You, Fíli, Kíli, and Bifur were the only ones who died because of the Battle.”

“Bifur?” Thorin asks, looking surprised. Bilbo blinks.

“You didn’t know? I thought Dwalin might have told you…”

Thorin shakes his head.

“It pains him too much to speak of it. I think he blames himself.”

“He always has,” Bilbo sighs, sitting back on his bed. “Would you like me to tell you? I wasn’t there for them, of course, but I know how most of them died.”

A soft knock at the door interrupts before Thorin can respond.

“Bilbo, my old friend? We seem to be missing a good portion of the line of Durin, might you know anything about this?”

Bilbo snorted. “Why no, Balin, I’m afraid I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Interesting. They seem to have disappeared into thin air.”

Bilbo grins at Thorin, feeling like a child again. Thorin’s returning smile is very nearly radiant. “Quite a talent.”

“Indeed.” Balin sounds supremely amused. “Well, if you happen to run across any of them, perhaps you could tell them we are planning to leave within the hour.”

“Of course, though I don’t know how I’d run into them in my room.”

Balin snorts. “Right. Don’t forget to get ready, Bilbo. Don’t get too distracted by your… room.”

“ _Markangakv_ ” Bilbo yells playfully, grinning. Thorin watches him inquisitively, but he didn’t offers no explanation.

“Perhaps another time,” Thorin offers gently, smiling. “I believe it might offer a less-than-cheerful beginning to our quest. I believe this should be a happy occasion.”

Bilbo smiles in return.

“You’re right, of course. Another time. No need to add sadness where there need not be any.”

* * *

“We’ve fruit in the pantry,” Merry offers, sliding gracefully down the grassy slope and landing lightly. “A nice, light breakfast. Perhaps a bit of cheese.”

“Seems a good start,” Pippin agrees, landing next to the other Hobbit rather less gracefully and grinning up at the Dwarves. “Don’t want to go too heavy, make you slow!”

“Are you calling us fat?” Fíli askes suspiciously. Pippin gasps theatrically.

“Oh, never! Just that, you know…”

“You could afford to exercise a bit more.” Merry finished for him, shrugging.

The brothers release twin offended noises and attempt to follow the Hobbits down the slope. Merry and Pippin cackle as they trip and slide gracelessly to land in a pile.

“Best to get your things together,” Pippin taunts as they try to untangle their limbs and clothes.

“Don’t want to be late.” Merry grins as they slip through the door, the Dwarves’ offended shouts echoing after them.

“Ah, Meriadoc, Peregrin.” Balin acknowledges as they enter the sitting room. “I’ve been looking for you. Your cousin seems busy, so I wanted to ask you lads if the three of you are ready to go?”

Merry shrugs. “We have all of our things together and packed. We’ll have to stop by Tuckborough on the way out, though. Bilbo has something he needs to drop off, and though I’ve already said goodbye to my family, Pip’s got to tell his brother.”

Balin looks inquisitively at Pippin. “You’ve not said your farewells?”

Pippin Shakes his head shortly, but did not offer any explanation. Balin frowns at him, but lets it go as Fíli and Kíli enter.

“Have you eaten, Balin?” Merry offers in a less-than-subtle attempt to change the subject. Balin turns his suspicious gaze onto him.

“You know something, don’t you, you little scoundrel?”

“You’re ganging up on them, Balin!” Kíli defends, balancing an apple on Pippin’s head. Beside him, Fíli scatters strawberries throughout Merry’s golden curls.

“There’s only one of me, lad, how can I possibly gang up on them?” Balin asks, amused, as Pippin casually plucks the apple out of his hair and takes a bite. Merry glares at Fíli as he begins digging the berries out of his, trying not to crush them.

“You have talents beyond all of us, Cousin,” Fíli counters, distractedly petting Merry’s hair and very much getting in the way of his efforts. “If anyone can gang up on someone without another person, it’s you.”

Dwalin snorts as he makes his way into the room, ducking slightly to avoid the doorframe. “They’ve got a point, Brother.”  
“Hush, you, they don’t need your help,” Balin chides. “Each set is bad enough on their own. I don’t know how any of us shall survive this journey with all of them.”

“Ah, yes, you’ve traveled with the Hobbits before, haven’t you?” Dwalin steps smoothly out of the way as Merry releases an annoyed squawk and attempts to grab at Fíli’s hair. Fíli squeals and jerks out of the way, darting from the room with the Hobbit close on his heels. Pippin and Kíli exchange entertained looks and follow, giggling. Balin rolls his eyes.

“Indeed. They are surprisingly good travelers, though I understand there is good reason for that. They’ve quite a bit of experience with it, I hear.”

Dwalin glances around surreptitiously and lowers his voice.

“They were good lads when I knew them. They were young still, though. They are not now the same Hobbits I knew.”

Balin shakes his head. “I fear none of us are exactly the same as we remember.”

Dwalin snorts. “No doubt.” He steps back, speaking once again at his normal volume.

“Somebody wake up Glóin and Óin,” Dwalin calls, slinging his pack over his shoulder. “I’m going to collect the ponies. I’ll be back.”

Bofur darts into the room. “I’ll get them. I’m all packed.”

Bombur pokes his head out of the kitchen, but Bofur waves him down. “I’ve got it, cousin. Master Dwalin, if you happen to see my brother out and about, would you tell him to come back soon? Don’t want to be late.”

Dwalin grunts his acknowledgement and Bombur returns to the kitchen. Bilbo makes his quiet way into the room moments later.

“Have you seen- ah, Master Bombur.” He smiles as Bombur makes his way fully out of the kitchen. “I hear you are the chef of this particular expedition. You’re welcome to anything you find in my pantry.” Bombur beams at him, and Dwalin makes his awkward way out of the front hall to the open door of the room Ori and Dori had been sleeping in.

Ori seems to be watching his older brother obsessively re-packing his rucksack worriedly.

“Dori. Dori, you’ve re-packed it three times.”

Dori scowls and shakes his head violently. Dwalin shrinks back from the doorway. “It’s not right.”

“Dori, he’ll come,” Ori says, confidence in his voice but not on his face.

“Of course he will.”

Ori sighs as his brother begins again. “He has to,” he mutters to himself.

Dwalin makes his way back to the front hall as quietly as he can.

* * *

Bifur settles on the bench quietly, staring off into the early-morning sky.

Greeting the sunrise. A romantic notion, perhaps, but it seems to suit a gentle people.

He watches the little figures in the fields below so intently he doesn’t even notice the near-silent footsteps approaching him on the road.

“ _Dricken mac cre_ ," the quiet figure beside him says, leaning into his line of vision and making him jump. He turns to stare at him.

The young Hobbit before him stares back, frowning slightly as he doesn’t respond. His expression lightened after a minute and he steps in front of the Dwarf, making sure not to block his vision.

“Span title=“Deaf?”> _Vaket_?" he asks clearly, gesturing at his ears and slapping his fist into his hand. Bifur blinks again but quickly grasps the question. Rather than attempting to answer in _Khuzdul_ , he simply shrugs slightly and gestures at his mouth.

The Hobbit squints at him for a moment, then he seems to understand. He makes a move as if to grab his tongue between his forefinger and thumb, then seems to reconsider as he caught a glimpse of his own dirt-covered hands. Instead he taps his lips and slashes his hand across his throat. Bifur makes a balancing motion with his hands, and the Hobbit nods then shrugs.

Bifur grunts and thumps himself on the chest, carefully saying, “Bifur.”

The Hobbit cocks his head, then smiles brilliantly, mimicking the gesture and saying, “ _Ranugad_." He gestures at the smial just down the road and thumps himself on the chest again.

Bifur puts his hand to his chest and extends it to the Hobbit, hoping his message would come across properly. 

_Ranugad_ continues to smile and mimics the gesture once again, accompanying it with a little bow of his head. The Hobbit’s smile fades somewhat, however, as he inspects Bifur’s face. He avoids speaking as he tapped his forehead and somewhat poorly mimics swinging an axe. He seems to struggle with a way to finish his question, then makes a circle with his hands.

Though rather convoluted, Bifur has received this question enough to understand.

_Are you all right?_

He smiles and copied the circular motion, then touches his fingertips to his lips and his chest.

_I am all right, thank you._

_Ranugad_ still seems hesitant, but offers a kind smile, nodding. He pauses, then nods toward Bag End.

“ _Bilba?_ ” He mimics walking with two fingers on the palm of his hand. Bifur nods, and the Hobbit’s face falls.

“ _Ranugad!_ _Marken vin chache cre_? " An irritated voice calls, and the Hobbit winces.

" _Condoe mev_! ” The little Hobbit sketches a short bow to Bifur and waves a little as he jogs off in the direction of his smial. The Dwarf smiles and returns it.

Sweet boy. 

Bifur wanders back into Bag End, still smiling to himself. The oldest Hobbit- probably _Bilba_ \- stops in front of him.

“Ah, Master Bifur. There you are. Your brother was looking for you, I believe.”

Bifur cocked his head at him, then jerked his thumb at the door.

“ _Ranugad?_ ”

Bilba blinks, then smiles. “Ah, you ran into young Hamfast, did you? A sweet lad.”

Bifur frowns. “Hamfast?”

“ _Ranugad_ ’s name in Common. He is my gardener’s cousin and assistant. He just started a short while ago, but he has real potential. And he speaks absolutely no Common, I fear.”

Bifur blinks, then nods. “ _Ranugad_.”

 _Bilba_ 's smile softened, and he nods in return. “ _Ranugad_.”

* * *

Bilbo smiles at the clear sky as he lifts his pack to his back, inhaling deeply. Beside him, Bofur grins at him.

“Not a bad day to begin an adventure, eh?” Bilbo returns his smile.

“Not a bad day at all. Got everything?”  
Bofur’s smile was playful. “Let’s see… pipe, weapon, family members… in order of importance, of course… got everything!”

Bilbo laughs lightly, turning to check on his own family

Though Merry stands beside Kíli, smiling at something the brunet was saying, Pippin was nowhere to be found. Balin sidles up to him as Bofur steps away to help his cousin with his pack.

“Young Peregrin asked me to inform you that he went on ahead, presumably to say his goodbyes to his family. He says we’ll still need to go through Tuckborough for you, however?”

Bilbo nods. “There are a few things that I’ll need to finish before I can leave. I’ve done most of it, but…” he glances around, but the other Dwarves all seemed absorbed in either discussion or packing. “Well, me leaving like I did the first time was very nearly disastrous on many fronts. Better to make sure everything’s in order.”

Merry, apparently disentangled from his discussion, wanders over.

“We’d best get going, I think. Tuckborough’s a bit out of the way, and Pippin’s got a good head start on us.”

“When did he leave?” Bilbo asks, frowning slightly. “I saw him not three hours ago.”

Merry shakes his head. “Not long after that. He’s got to deal with his brother, you know, and his sister-in-law. And the Thain. And, well… you know how complicated it is.”

“Why didn’t you go with him?” Bilbo questions, then winces as he realizes how accusatory it sounded. Merry deflates, looking away.

“He… asked me not to. He’s old enough to know when he’s got to do something on his own.”

Bilbo can think of nothing to say to that.

They turn to the road ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m [here](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. 
> 
> [Why I use Westron.](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/post/108036864278/tolkien-headcanons-my-approach-to-westron-in-my)
> 
>  
> 
> Westron Dictionary
> 
> Aduni- Westron.  
> Markangakv- A fairly foul curse word. The combination of the word for 'fuck' ( _Marken_ ) and the word for 'tainted' ( _gakv_ ) basically means ‘cockblocker,’ except instead of preventing sex from happening, it generally implies someone has walked in right in the middle and started commenting on it.  
> Driken mac cre - Excuse me/Pardon me  
> Vaket- deaf  
> Ranugad- Hamfast  
> Bilba- Bilbo  
> Marken vin chache cre? - Are you fucking off again?  
> Condoe mev- I'm coming
> 
> [An explanation of the line for the Thainship.](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/post/109733714998/line-for-the-thainship-when-the-company-leaves)
> 
> [Ask me questions on my Tumblr!](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Leave a comment! Let me know how you feel!
> 
> Last but certainly not least, thank you for all the comments you've already provided! There's truly nothing I like more than getting a comment, even if it's just "I liked that!" Every single one I get makes my day, and I can't thank you guys enough. Thanks for putting up with me!
> 
> Lots of love.


	5. I Must Follow If I Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More politics and complicated family matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both interludes have been moved to I Won’t Forget.
> 
> Chapter rewritten as of 2/5/18.

Pippin stares at his brother’s door, hands clenched tight around his pack straps.

He can hear Esmerelda’s shrieks through the open window. 

Rather than knock, he wanders over to stand before window to the kitchen, watching Adalgrim attempt to feed his daughter and fail rather miserably as his wife laughs at him. 

Violet turns back to the sink, still chuckling, and spots him hovering by the frame immediately.

“ _Razanur_! Pippin, whatever are you doing lurking in the hedges? Come in, come in!”

Behind her, Adalgrim makes an outraged noise as Esmerelda smears a pulpy hand through his wild curls. Pippin pastes on a grin and makes his way into the house.

" _Razacorâ_!” His once-father screams, young sticky face splitting into a gap-filled grin. A chorus of shrieks echoes through his brother’s halls as Paladin’s three older sisters come charging into the front hall.

“ _Razacorâ_!”

The source of the many tiny voices collide and trip over each other as all of his nieces and nephews rush to tell him everything that had happened since they had last seen him. He smiles helplessly, hoisting the youngest girl, Ivy, to sit on his hip as she chatters. His sister-in-law laughs as she appears in the doorway.

“Pippin, love, wonderful to see you again. You’ve been gone a good long while!”

Pippin’s smile falters, staring at her, and she squints at him before gently swatting at her daughters' backs with the towel in her hand.

“ _Ventar cas, corben cask corâ._ ” She chides good-naturedly.

His eldest niece, Marigold, huffs theatrically and stalks off, her siblings trailing behind her sending them plaintive looks.

Pippin snorts and shoos them away.

“Something’s wrong,” Violet squints at him, leaning heavily on the doorframe. “You’ve got a look on your face.”

“There’s no look on my face!” Pippin protests, “This is just what I look like!”  
“Oh? You regularly look like your best friend died?” Violet counters, looking amused. A look of panic crossed her face a second later. “ _Kali- marâ_ …”

“Merry’s fine,” Pippin rushes to reassure her. “Everyone’s fine.”

She relaxes and glares at him. “You’re upset. Why are you upset?”

“I’m not upset!”

“You are a terrible liar, _Razanur Tûk_. You don’t want to say it in hearing range of your brother? Fine, I get that.”

Behind her, Adalgrim makes an offended noise from where he had been not-so-subtly listening in. She shakes her head.

“Someone has to watch the toddler, _Evatith_. Stay here. Also, she’s about to fall off the table,” Violet tells her husband without turning around. Adalgrim squawks in horror, and she shakes her head, exasperated.

“We’ll go to the garden. Exposed it may be, but it will also expose any lurkers. Like little ears which should not be listening in,” she says pointedly, and there is an offended noise from the nearby sitting room that is swiftly hushed. 

Pippin snorts.

“Or older ears which should know better,” he adds wryly, and laughs out loud as his brother gives another, equally offended noise. “Yes, the garden. I’d like to see how your flowers are coming this year.”

“Oh, terribly, as can only be expected since you left,” Violet responds airily as they walk. “For some reason, the anemones are taking over the whole bloody plot.”

“I didn’t realize you were planting anemones this year.”

“I didn’t. That’s rather the issue.”

Pippin suppresses a smile. “Ah.”

* * *

Merry dismounts smoothly, grinning at his pony and patting its muzzle. The pony whiskers and Glóin side-eyes it.

“Mind if I go get Pip, Master Thorin?” He calls cheerfully up to the front of the procession. The king glances back from his conversation with Bilbo and nods.

“Glóin, go with him. The rest of you, double-check our things. I’ll go with Bilbo to meet with his Thain.”

Glóin dismounts roughly and stumps over to him, scowling. Merry smiled sunnily at him.

“Hello, Master Glóin.”

Glóin nods gruffly. “Master Brandybuck. Ready?”

“Let’s go.” They begin trudging down the path, and Merry shoots a smirk toward the Dwarf.

“You’ll not scare me with that scowl, Master Glóin.”

“Dunno what you’re talking about, lad.”

“You can play gruff all you like, Master Glóin, I recognize a softy when I see one.”

The scowl falls from Glóin‘s face and he bellows out a laugh.

“Ye’ve guts, I’ll give you that, lad. What if there was naught but anger beneath my scowl?”

“Well, I’d’ve been in trouble, wouldn’t I? But I’m fairly good at judging a person’s personality from their interactions with others, and you act like a person with children. Have you any?”

“Two,” Glóin admits cheerfully, “Gimli and Gimris. Young, both, but the lights of my life.”

Even as he says this, a chorus of light laughter rises from the hill beside them. Five young Hobbit children scurry from the high grass onto the road. They huddled tight for a moment before the tallest glances over and spotted them. The child’s gaze lingers for a moment upon Glóin before lighting on Merry.

“ _Kalicorâ_! ” The little pack of children breaks apart at the exclamation and they all charge forward to cling to Merry’s legs. He laughs and rests his hands on their wild curls.

“ _Melala_ ,” he says fondly, reaching out to ruffle the tallest child’s hair. “How big you’ve gotten! Has it really been so long? You’re nearly grown!”

“Uncle,” the child begins, somewhat haltingly, “I _am_ nearly grown!”

“Really?” Merry asks, squinting theatrically at the Hobbit. “No. You were born in 1317… what year is it?”

The child giggles. “It’s 1341, Uncle! You’re not that old, don’t you pretend forget!”

“‘Don’t pretend you forgot,’” he corrects gently, then adopts a look of surprise. “But wait, that would make you…”

“I’m twenty-four! Nine years from being grown!” the child announces proudly.

The children around them titter in shared excitement.  
`  
“No, it’s not been that long! I swear, just last year you were the height of my knee and demanding biscuits in Westron! Now you’re so big, and getting so good at Common! Whatever am I going to do! Soon Esmerelda will be telling me it’s her thirty-third!”

“Esme’s four, Uncle!”

Merry squints at the child.

“Wait, which one are you?”

The child shrieks in offense. “I’m Marigold, Uncle! You say I’m your favorite niece and you can’t even remember my name?”

Merry shakes his head. “You must be mistaken, I’m sure you're Ivy.”

Another child, clearly reacting more to their name being spoken than to the words Merry is saying, releases a delighted stream of babble in Westron, and Merry laughs.

“Valar, you are lively today! Now, I wish I could stay, but I’ve need of your Uncle. Is he with your parents?”

Marigold shakes her head, wild curls going everywhere. “Last I saw, _Razacorâ_ was with _Emma_ in the garden. They ‘specially told _Onna_ to stay away, and they sent us away.”

The children reluctantly detach themselves from his legs and he smiles down at them.

“Thank you, Melala.” His smile turns a touch sad. “Take care of your siblings for us, will you?”

Merry kneels carefully and gives each of them a gentle kiss on their foreheads.

“ _Ircarae cre mev_.”

Each of them repeat the words back to him, including the dark-haired child Glóin notices looks nothing like the rest.

Marigold, however, is watching Merry closely. As he meets her eyes, she gasps softly.

“You’re leaving. You and Razacorâ.”

Merry’s face falls, and he nods. She gulps wetly and reaches out to take the dark-haired child’s hand. The other Hobbit looks at her, questioning, and she shakes her head.

“Good luck, Uncle Merry. Take care of him.”

Merry smiles softly at her, sadness touching his eyes.

“I always do, Marigold. I always do.”

She makes a soft choking noise and pulls away without another word. The other children, watching confusedly, trail after her.

Merry sighs heavily. Glóin quirks an eyebrow.

“The children?”

“Pippin’s nieces and nephews, and Marigold’s best friend. None but Marigold speak Common, I’m afraid.”

Glóin nodds quietly, seeing the sadness lurking in the Hobbit’s eyes.

“You love them very much.”

Merry nods wordlessly and looks away.

“Best head in. I don’t hear any screaming yet, so likely his brother hasn’t been told yet. This is going to be a shitshow.”

Glóin raises an inquisitive eyebrow, both at the comment and because they bypass the front door of the house in favor of rounding the side. Merry smiles weakly at him and leads him to a small gate, holding it open graciously to allow him to pass. Glóin snorts at the courtesy.

“It’s like a small forest in here,” he grumbles as they began making their way through the wild plants on either side of the small path. Merry laughs, a bit of the grimness lifting.

“Don’t say that to Violet or Adalgrim,” Merry says in a stage-whisper, stopping behind a particularly large bush. “Neither of them have any talent with plants and both resent the fact. Pip’s the only one who can do anything with a garden among them, and it’s gone wild since he moved in with us.”

“ _Kali_? ” A voice asks from behind them, sounding confused. Glóin whips around, startled, and Merry turns to face the wide-eyed Hobbit standing there.

“Ah, there you are Adalgrim. I’m looking for Pip.”

Adalgrim blinks at them, clearly trying not to stare at Glóin.

“Um. Pippin. Yes. Uh… he’s in the kitchen with Violet and Esme.”

“‘Course.” Merry says, reaching out to grab Glóin’s arm and dragging him back toward the house. Adalgrim trails behind them.

“I don’t suppose you know why my baby brother came in from the garden crying, Meriadoc?” Adalgrim asks, a dangerous note in his voice.

Merry smiles at him with not a trace of deception on his face.

“No idea, Adalgrim. Ask Violet. Or Pippin himself.”

“I did, you little shit,” Adalgrim counters, rolling his eyes. “They were less than forthcoming.”

“Why would you think I know anything more?” Merry asks innocently.

Adalgrim gives him a look. Merry continues to smile.

Glóin pushes open the door to the kitchen.

“I found a lovely little _ferret_ in the garden, Vi,” Adalgrim announces rather viciously as he shoves past Merry. Pippin, seated at the table, looks up and smiles weakly at them.

“Best looking ferret I’ve ever seen,” he chuckles, a little watery still. Violet snorts.

“Hello, Merry,” she greets, slinging the towel in her hands over her shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

“Glóin son of Gróin, at your service,” he introduces himself, bowing. Violet smiles.

“Violet Took at yours. The babe is our little Esme, and the arse behind you is my husband Adalgrim, since I’m certain he was sulking too much to introduce himself.”

Merry scoffs and Pippin laughs.

“He’s sore we won’t tell him what we were talking about.”

Adalgrim glares. “Well, pardon me for being concerned when my baby brother has been crying and no one will tell me-”

“I’m leaving, Adalgrim. We’re leaving,” Pippin interrupts quietly.

Everyone freezes. Glóin shifts uncomfortably.

“You can’t.”

“I have to.”

“No, you _can’t_. You know damn well what will happen if you do.”

“I have to,” Pippin tells his brother ferociously. “I have to, Adalgrim. This is not a debate.”

“I am your guardian, _Razanur Tûk_ , and if I say you’re not going, you’re not going,” Adalgrim snaps.

“You can’t stop me.”

“You are my responsibility, _Razanur_ , especially since you are underage for nearly another five years-“

Glóin gapes at them. A small hand gripped his arm tightly as he opens his mouth to question them about this, and he turns to look at Merry. The Hobbit shakes his head tightly at him, and he subsides as an enraged Pippin responds.

“Oh, so I’m responsible enough at twenty-five to tie myself to this place for the rest of my life, but not responsible enough to decide to never come back at twenty-nine?”

Adalgrim has turned nearly purple with rage.

“You’re talking about abandoning your family! And for what? Your dear cousin- who you are far too attached to for your own good-“

“Don’t you bring _Kali_ into this, he has nothing to do with it-“

“He has always been a terrible influence on you!”

“Adalgrim, stop this nonsense,” Violet interrupts crossly, lifting a teary-eyed Esme into her arms and glaring at her husband. “You have always liked Merry.”

“That was before he convinced my baby brother that he was more important than us!”

Pippin sighs heavily. “This is my decision, Adalgrim. Not yours. Not Merry’s. Not even the bloody Thain’s.” There is regret in his eyes, but also steel.

“It’s already done, brother. _Sellarec mar vakûd, rûtec mev_. All that’s left is seeing how it lands.”

Adalgrim sinks into a chair as though his legs refuse to support him. He offers a fragile little chuckle.

“You’ve always been terrible at conkers, Pippin.”

“Times change, Adalgrim.” Pippin sounds more tired than anything. Merry steps over to rest his hand on the other’s shoulder. “People change. I had to grow up at some point.”

“I just don’t understand how I never saw any of it,” his brother admits brokenly.

‘You’ve had your own life, Adalgrim. You were right to let me have mine.”

Adalgrim runs his hands over his face roughly. “ _Onna_ told me to take care of you. How am I supposed to do that with you gone?”

“You can’t protect me forever. I need you to understand this, _mordika_ , this is something I need to do.” He stands, grabbing Merry’s hand as it slides from his shoulder. “ _Ircarae cre mev, Evatith, ej corbec retrût mev_.”

Adalgrim squeezes his eyes shut, resting his forehead in his hand.

“Then why won’t you stay?”

His voice cracks a little on the last word.

“I don’t belong here anymore, _mordika_.”

Adalgrim lifts his head to meet his younger brother's eyes stubbornly. His eyes are slightly red-rimmed.

“You will always belong here, _mordaki_.”

“My heart will," Pippin admits heavily. "Ever shall my heart belong to the Shire. But my road leads me far from here, and I fear there is no way back.”

Adalgrim does not seem to have a response to this. Glóin shakes himself, deciding he’s been standing there like a lump of coal for far too long already.

“Got to let them go sometime, laddie,” he tells the sullen Hobbit, wishing he had something better to say. “If you try to shelter him, it’ll only hurt him in the long run. Lock ‘em away, and they’ll just resent you for it.”

“Well said, Master Glóin,” Violet says firmly, setting Esme back in her chair. “Now, Pippin, your company is waiting. Send us letters with the Rangers if you can. Remember we love you, and bloody hell, we can always meet in Bree.”

She drops a kiss onto his forehead and drags her husband to her feet.

“Kiss him, hug him, tell him you love him, and wish him well. This is the last we’ll see of him in a long time.”

He obeys, muttering into Pippin’s curls, and his eyes are wet as he draws away.

“ _Corben kant, morda, lenna_ ,” Pippin says quietly as he steps away. “ _Trec ûten ranu yamet cask melen_.”

* * *

Fortinbras stares at Bilbo, expression blank. Bilbo manages not to shift uncomfortably through sheer willpower.

“Does this little adventure of yours have anything to do with the fact that my cousin came in here two hours ago and told me he was going to stay in Buckland with Merry for a little while?”

Bilbo resolutely does not flinch.

“Ah, we’re taking them there, but beyond that, no.”

Fortinbras blinks slowly.

Bilbo stared back.

“Be careful with him, Bilbo. He is my favorite cousin. I’d like him back in one piece.” He winces, and adds wryly. “Or as few pieces as possible, given who he is.”

Thorin draws himself up.

“He’ll have Dwarves of the Blue Mountains guarding him, Thain. He’ll be fine,” he says.

Fortinbras turns to him, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah, yes. You’ve yet to introduce this Dwarf, Bilbo. Wherever are your manners?”

Bilbo snorts.

“He introduced himself, Fortinbras, You’ve ears, haven’t you?”

“Bilbo, you know damn well we’re supposed to keep to the old ways before outsiders.”

“The old ways are awful.”

“You don’t have to deal with Grandmother if she finds out that we’ve broken tradition.”

Bilbo sighs dramatically, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling, before glaring at the Thain and sweeping into a surprisingly graceful bow.

“Fortinbras II, son of Isumbras IV, twenty-ninth Thain of the Shire, I, Bilbo Baggins, fifth in line for Thainship and sixteenth head of the family Baggins, do introduce Thorin II Oakenshield, King of Durin’s Folk.” He breaks his solemn character to sneer slightly at Fortinbras. “I’ve no idea which one.”

Fortinbras gapes at him. Thorin disguises a snort as an abrupt cough.

“ _Bilba_!”

“What?”

“You’ve gotten bold in your old age, my friend,” Thorin murmurs in Bilbo’s ear. The Hobbit snorts.

“Bold indeed.”

Fortinbras sighs heavily.

“All right, clearly you’re not offended,” the Thain relents. “Honestly though, Bilbo, you can’t do this to everyone.”

Bilbo shrugs.

“I’ve been a crotchety old arsehole since I was ten years old, Fortinbras, and you know it.”

“You’re completely ridiculous, Bilbo. I’m surprised the Sackville-Bagginses haven’t murdered you in your sleep yet.”  
Bilbo scoffs. “Oh, they wouldn’t. Cowards, the lot of them. Wouldn’t want to soil their precious hands with my dirty Took blood. Never mind that everyone knows exactly where the Sackvilles got their reputation from, and tossing a Baggins after it won’t do shit to make it respectable-“

“Yes, Bilbo, we all know your feelings on the Sackville-Bagginses,” Fortinbras interrupts, rolling his eyes with just a touch of fondness. “I’m sure His Majesty has very little wish to listen to them, however.”

Thorin shrugs, his lips twitching.

“It’s amusing watching him puff up like an offended owl,” he admits.

Bilbo glares as the Thain snorts.

“He does do that, doesn’t he? After the sixteenth rant or so, though, it gets significantly less amusing.”

“I am going to tell all of my cousins to put frogs in your bed,” Bilbo threatens, a pleasant smile fixed on his face. “Dead ones, so they squish when you lie down.”

Fortinbras’ expression drops in shock and he gapes at his cousin for a moment before he managed to recover his voice.

“That was you?!”

“No,” Bilbo replies coolly, “that was Violet, at my suggestion. She didn’t take too kindly to you implying that her garden was sub-par.”

Fortinbras makes a noise like a cat being stepped on.

“The only person in that family that can garden at all is Pippin! Of course their garden has been hellish since he left!”

“Yes, but you’re not supposed to say that, you idiot. Honestly, how you made it to adulthood is beyond me, you have the self-preservation instincts of a drunken mole.”

“You can’t talk to me like that, I’m older than you.”

“By twelve years, and for exactly fifteen of those years have you been more mature than me.”

“I’ve a twenty-five year old son! What does that tell you?”

“That Lalia’s incredible and you forgot to pull out?”

“Bilbo!”

Thorin snorted loudly and both Hobbits turn to look at him as he slowly turns red with suppressed laughter.

“Oh, bloody hell, Bilbo. Just do whatever you came here to do and go off on your mad adventure,” Fortinbras says tiredly, rubbing his forehead. “You haven't had your one mandatory break from reality yet anyway. Got to give the old biddies something to gossip about.”

Bilbo snorts and shoves a sheaf of papers into Fortinbras’ hands.

“My will,” he explains. “If I’m not back in a year, assume I’m dead and do not let the Sackville-Bagginses anywhere near my things. Everything’s specified in there.”

Thorin and Fortinbras both raise eyebrows at him.

“You really don’t want them near your things, do you Bilbo? Wherever you’re going can’t be that dangerous, can it?  
”  
Bilbo smiles enigmatically at his cousin.

“Oh, not very dangerous at all. Just… precautions, you know? Never know what could happen.”

* * *

“Ah, the mighty Brandywine," Balin sighs as they stop to gaze at the wide, slow river. “The power she conceals behind her tranquil veneer remains astonishing no matter how many times you pass over her.”

“I don’t recall it being quite so wide the last time we saw it,” Bilbo catches Kíli murmuring to his brother. Bilbo snorts.

“Deceiving, isn't she?"

Bofur raises an eyebrow at them. “Wide she may be, but she’s nothing like the wild mountain streams I’ve met. How does she deceive?”

Behind them, Merry snorts, urging his pony to the front of the line of Dwarves.

“Our lady Brandy may look calm- and she is, for the first foot of depth or so- but beneath that she rages as wild as any mountain stream. She’s fast, deep, and deadly.”

“We lose more people- Hobbits and Men both- to the Brandywine each year than by almost any other cause,” Bilbo tells them somberly, watching the river with a small frown.

“Brandybucks are the most common victims,” Merry admits, “as many of us are fisher people. Some boats go out and just never come back.”

“You can’t see the rapids before you hit them,” Pippin says, also moving toward the front. “Those who are not familiar with the waters, or who simply do not approach them with caution, will hit them and capsize, be dragged under by the current. There’s no way to fight it.”

They are all silent for a moment, staring at the slow waters.

“Brandywine,” Fíli realizes. “Rather a lot like your last name, isn’t it Merry?”

Merry smiles, shaking off the gloom. “Indeed it is. Truthfully, no one knows if the Brandybucks were named for the Brandywine or the other way ‘round- so much of our history is lost to the ages. But my family has made their homes on the shores of the Brandywine for centuries, as far back as our written history goes.”

“That’s Buckland, were Merry was born,” Pippin fills in, directing their attention to a large town on the other side of the river. “Beyond that, the Hedge and the Old Forest.”

Bilbo snorts. “Just like the Brandybucks to find the two most dangerous things in the peaceful West and settle right between them.”

“Three,” Pippin corrects. “Have to count the Barrow-downs.”

Bilbo shakes his head, exasperated. “I’m just endlessly grateful I’ve never dealt with any of them in any extreme fashion. These poor fools have experienced all three directly.”

“Oi, we didn’t exactly have an option when it came to the Old Forest and the Barrow-downs,” Merry protests.

“No, but you’ve both been out in a boat on the Brandywine willingly. And the Forest and the Barrows both nearly killed you.”

“You make us sound like thrill-seeking buffoons, you’ve no room to talk, Bilbo.”

“I’ve got to hear the tale of this Old Forest,” Ori interjects, smiling.

Merry and Pippin exchange amused glances.

“Let’s press on. There will be time enough for storytelling on the way.” Merry suggests, glancing at the company’s leader. Thorin nods sharply.

“Move out. We’ve a bit to go before we reach Bree.”

Bilbo nudges his pony into a trot to catch up with Thorin, settling back into his saddle as he draws level. Thorin glowers at him out of the corner of his eye, but he is visibly suppressing a smile as Balin begins whistling loudly and less-than-subtly falls back so he is riding beside his brother rather than him, giving them some tiny bit of near-privacy.

“Do you need something, Master Baggins?”

“Can’t an old Hobbit just want some good company, Master Oakenshield?”

Thorin can’t fight back a snort as Merry and Pippin begin their tale behind them.

“You’ve heard this story a good few times, I’m guessing?”

“A wonderful story, but only for the first few times,” Bilbo admits shamelessly. “It’s one of their favorites. Safe enough for children, fanciful enough it sounds like fantasy. We are among the only people in Arda who know that very little of it is untrue.”

“Very little?” Thorin asks, a hint of a smile playing at the edge of his lips. Bilbo grins.

“A wise Wizard once told me that all great stories deserve embellishment.”

As though summoned by the mention, Gandalf appears at their side.

“And where have you been since we left, Master Gandalf?” Bilbo asks suspiciously.

Gandalf offers an airy, enigmatic smile. “Oh... about. A wild tale indeed your cousins are telling, Master Baggins.”

“Merry and Pippin are born storytellers, Gandalf,” Bilbo tells him with a wide smile, ignoring the dodge and deliberately evading the question hidden in the Wizard’s words.

“Very few who enter the Old Forest ever exit, aside from those who take only the shallowest of dives.”

“It’s the spiders that get most of them,” Bilbo agrees with a shudder. “Terrible creatures. The trees take the rest.”

“Fewer still survive the Barrow-downs. In fact, I’ve not heard of any who have passed through and lived in centuries.” Gandalf raises one great eyebrow at him. Bilbo looks away.

“Yes, well. They don’t tell that story. Less fantasy, more horror. None in the Shire would want to hear the tale, and I do not believe they like telling it. They have had many near-death encounters, but I believe their experience in the Barrows was among the worst.”

Gandalf frowns in the direction of the Barrows, though they were only barely visible beyond the Forest.

“That, and their families would have murdered them themselves had they learned they had ventured into them,” Bilbo adds wryly. “It’s one of the first things people learn to avoid. There’s bloody songs about it.”

Behind them, Balin perks up, interested enough that he wasn’t willing to continue to feign deafness.

“Really? In Common, or in your own language?”

Bilbo twists around to look at him, trusting his pony not to stray off the road.

“Both, actually. Mostly it’s the Brandybucks who know the one in Common. I can’t remember the whole thing, you’ll have to ask one of the boys to sing it to you. Or if you’ll wait ’til Bree, I’m sure the whole bloody inn could sing it to you, our version was adapted from theirs.”

“Really?”

“I believe that, in the shorter version, the only line which was changed was ‘Be careful near the hills and dells/ Upon the path to Bree.’ And whatever line came before it that rhymes with Bree. I think Bree’s version has something to do with Buckland.”

“Hm.” Balin still looks interested, but seems content to watch the Forest as they pass, so Bilbo untwists in his saddle to watch the road again.

* * *

“Mahal’s balls,” Bofur breathes as Bree comes into view. “It’s massive. The way people talk about it- they call it a town. That’s not a town, that’s a bloody city.”

“It’s not quite as large as it looks,” Merry laughs. “There is actually a bit of farmland within its walls- Bree was built for protection, and the farmland would help the people last a little longer in a siege.”

Balin chuckles. “It was built on the ruins of what Breelanders call the Old City, remnants of the great kingdom of Arnor. The Breelanders’ predecessors, along with the Hobbits, were once subjects of their king.”

“Those rulers now haunt the Barrow-downs. _Cruel and cursed are kings and queens/ in Barrow-downs which dwell_ ,” Merry sings quietly. “All that's left of those mighty people are crumbling stone buildings and a very large group of people who answer to no king at all.”

It is silent for a moment, the clopping of hooves seeming uncommonly loud, before Pippin breaks it.

“Well, I, for one, will be damn glad to get to Bree. I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving, Pip. If you weren’t, something would be wrong.” Merry says.

They bicker about this all the way to the gates of Bree, only stopping when they are called out to.

“Halt!” The gate guard shouts, none-too-subtly elbowing his dozing companion in the ribs as he stands. “State your business.” Then, spotting Bilbo, he repeats himself respectfully in rather halting Westron.

“Travelling party passing through,” Thorin explains gruffly.

The guard squints dubiously at the relatively large company comprised mostly of heavily-armed Dwarves.

“Groups of more than ten are to report to the Mayor if planning to stay overnight,” he says rather reluctantly.

Merry nudges his way to the front once more and smiles charmingly at the guard. “The mayor’s office is rather out of the way, my friend. Could your sleepy companion there perhaps run and fetch the Captain? Tell him _Kalimac Brandagamba_ wants to speak with him.”

The guard shifts and exchanges glances with his partner.

“Well, this is a bit irregular…” The Woman says, frowning.

“He’ll be happy to speak to me, believe me. We can wait here while you do.”

Merry smiles. The guards scowl. Thorin is fairly certain he hears the Woman mutter ‘damn Brandybucks’ as she ducks inside the guard door.

Thorin gestured for his company to make their way off the path so as not to block the gate and raises an eyebrow at Merry.

“The Captain, Master Brandybuck?”

Merry grins at him.

“Ah, I’ve known him since he was a whelp. The Mayor’s an arse and a pain to deal with, it’ll be faster and easier to go through Henry.” He shakes his head. “I’m just grateful we’re not traders. It’s nearly impossible to get through even with a party of five.”

Bilbo shakes his head in disgust. “That Mayor’s going to put off traders permanently. Then what’s that fool going to do? Sit on wheat?”

“Henry’s a good Man, though, and even the Mayor’s scared of him. He made Captain at twenty-six and has basically been running Bree by himself for the last two years. Valar know the Mayor’s not doing anything to help.”

“The Mayor? Help?” Pippin scoffs, nudging his pony closer to the edge of the group. “That bigoted arsehole has never helped anyone in his life.”

His lip curls in disgust. “He tried to make it law that Men with breasts wear binding while in public.”

There were several noises of outrage and bewilderment from the surrounding Dwarves, and even Gandalf was frowning disapprovingly.

Merry snorts. “Don’t worry. That went down in bloody flames when Henry stormed up to his office and lectured him for four hours about the health risks and about how he wasn’t going to stand around in full plate armor with binding on, and if the Mayor ever tried anything like it again he’d ruin him.”

“I’m pretty sure the Mayor’s secretary is still in love with him for that,” Merry laughs.

“Oh, he is,” an amused voice confirms from behind them. “He sent me flowers last week.”

The Man who stopped before them is rather astonishingly short- probably not much taller than Thorin himself- and does indeed sport a rather remarkably large bust.

“ _Kali_. It’s been too long,” he grins. Merry laughs and slipped off his pony to clasp Henry’s hand tightly.

“Too long indeed. It’s a lot harder to get to Bree from Hobbiton than it is from Buckland though, I’m afraid.”

“No doubt. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, puttering along, you know.”

Henry smiles playfully at him. “You’ve never in your life puttered along, _Brandagamba_. What’re you up to? Who’re your friends?”

Merry gestures lazily at them. “Obviously you know _Razar_ and _Bilba_.”

Pippin grins and waves. Bilbo simply nods graciously, looking amused.

“And even if you’ve never met Gandalf the Grey, I know you’ve heard of him.”

Henry gapes at the Wizard.

“Master Gandalf! Apologies, sir, it has been many years since last we met. I did not recognize you!” He bows hurriedly.

Gandalf squints at him. “Forgive an old Man for his faulty memory, lad, but I fear I cannot place your face. Might I know the names of your parents?”

Henry shakes his head. “Don’t worry, Master Gandalf, you must meet a great many people on your travels. I am an orphan, I’m afraid, you wouldn’t have known me by my parents’ names.”

Gandalf nods, smiling. “As long as you don’t mind, my boy.”

Henry grins and looks toward the Dwarves. Merry gestures toward Thorin.

“Thorin, the leader of our company.”

Thorin shoots a grateful look at the Hobbit for not advertising his identity and inclines his head politely at the Captain. Henry returnes the gesture, as Merry gives Thorin a knowing little smile.

As Merry begins listing off the other members, Thorin lets his gaze drift and nearly misses Pippin carefully tying his pony’s reins to the pommel of Merry’s saddle and slipping through the gate.

Thorin raises an inquiring eyebrow at Bilbo, who shakes his head minutely and mouthes something that is probably supposed to be ‘later’ before returning his attention to Henry.

Thorin frowns, but lets it be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr is [here.](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Promise, next chapter they're out of the Shire.
> 
> Notes:
> 
> Anemones are very pretty flowers that do indeed bloom in May-June, and one of their meanings is ‘forsaken’. Pippin’s old garden does not approve of him leaving. I just like the idea of Pippin having a bitchy garden.
> 
> The 'dark haired child who looked nothing like the rest' is actually Bell Brandybuck, Marigold's future wife. Despite the fact that they were literally born the same day, she doesn't speak any Common because she's never lived among the majority of the Brandybuck family.
> 
> Why Pippin and Adalgrim’s argument took place in Common and not Westron when Westron is their first language: quite simply, they know damn well Adalgrim has very nosy children, and only one of those nosy children knows any Common. They don’t want them to hear if they’re lurking.
> 
> [Why I use Westron.](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/post/108036864278/tolkien-headcanons-my-approach-to-westron-in-my)
> 
> Westron Dictionary:
> 
> Razanur- Peregrin  
> Razacer- Uncle Pippin  
> Vetar cas, corben cask cer. - Leave your uncle alone.  
> Kali- marâ…- Merry- he…  
> Razanur Tûk- Peregrin Took  
> Evatith- Adalgrim  
> Kalicer- Uncle Merry  
> Melala- a nickname for Marigold  
> Emma- Mother  
> Onna- Father  
> Ircarae cre mev.- I love you.  
> Sellarec mar vakûd, rûtec mev. - I have cast my (game piece used in conkers). (Used exactly like ‘I’ve cast my die.’)  
> Mordika- older/big brother  
> Ircarae cre mev, Evatith, ej corbev retrût mev.- I love you, Adalgrim, and I always will.  
> Mordaki- younger/little brother  
> Corben kant, morda, lenna- Be well (goodbye), brother, sister.  
> Trec ûten ranu yamet cask melên.- May all your roads lead home. (A rather old-fashioned traditional farewell.)
> 
> Leave a comment! Let me know how you feel!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for all your comments!
> 
> Lots of love.


	6. Song for Heart and Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rewritten as of 2/5/18.

“The Prancing Pony,” Henry announces grandly as they come to a stop. “Harry’ll take care of your ponies if you’ll leave ‘em with him. Talk to Karen about rooms for the night- she’s the owner. If you can’t find her, Dan’s head server and Alice is the alternate bartender. They can take care of you.”

“Thanks, Henry,” Merry says, smiling at his old friend. “It’ll be awhile before we’ll be able to make our way back ‘round, so this is probably goodbye for now.”

“Don’t get into so much trouble you can’t get out of it while you’re gone,” Henry says gruffly, patting the Hobbit heavily on the shoulder.

Merry gives him an innocent look. “Trouble? Me? Never.” He smiles at him and lays a gentle hand on his forearm. 

“Don’t string poor Charlie along for too long, Henry. Little humility’s good for the soul, but if he’s moved onto roses it might be time to give in.”

Henry cuffs him on the back of his head gently, then ruffles his curls, grinning softly.

“Ah, I’ll miss you, you sorry bastard,” he says, scowling.

“Sap,” Merry accuses affectionately. Henry’s expression eases and he laughs.  
“Yeah, you caught me. Don’t get killed out there, _Kali_.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Henry clasps hands with Merry one more time, salutes the others respectfully, and turns to trudge back down the road, waving as he goes.

“They’ll be married within the year,” Pippin says from beside Thorin, making him startle violently. Merry laughs.

“Ah, they’re mad for each other. I give it two months.”

“Five,” Bilbo counters.

“The lot’ve you’ll be dead poor by the end of the journey if you keep betting the way you usually do, lads.” Balin chides, his tone trying for stern but slipping right into amused.

Pippin scoffs. “It’s all Bilbo’s money anyway, Balin, he’s just never right.”

“Oi!”

“It’s true, Cousin,” Merry chortles. Bilbo glares.

“I’ll get you rats one day, and it will be the one bet that counts, just you wait and see.”

His cousins just snorts and darts inside. Bilbo rolls his eyes, shaking his head fondly. Thorin chuckles quietly before turning to address the rest of his company.

“Óin, Glóin, Fíli, Kíli, you’re in charge of the ponies and our things. Balin, Dori, rooms, if you will? Everyone else… just don’t frighten the locals, yes?”

They all grumbled their agreement and moved to follow orders. Balin is snickering suspiciously behind his beard at his phrasing.

Thorin glares at him. It didn’t seem to have any effect.

* * *

"How many rooms?" Dori asks Balin as they weave their way through the dense crowd packed into the inn.

"Three to a room, I'd say. Give 'em a bit of luxury before the Lone Lands, hm?”

“Best work out room assignments beforehand,” Dori warns. “Those boys’ll give you trouble.”

Balin raises an amused eyebrow as they stop at the bar. “Which ones?”

Dori shakes his head, smile quirking his lips. “Fíli and Kíli. They are far younger and more wild than the Hobbits, don’t let Merry and Pippin fool you.”

Balin lean against the counter, waiting patiently for the harried bartender to get a moment to speak to them.

“Ah, yes, I forget that you’ve met them, before.”

Dori waves his hand dismissively. “I never told you. I’m not sure the others know either. It was… Rivendell. Early Fourth Age. Not sure exactly when. They were both there, as Thain and Master of Buckland. They were… older. Harder, than they seem now. Far from children. But kind still. Good people. Kinder still when they were told who I was. They told me the tale of Moria in a way no one else had been able to.”

Balin looks away, unable to meet his eyes.

“For what it’s worth, Dori… I am sorry.”

The bartender bustles up before he can respond, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes and leaning on the counter.  
“What can I do for you, Masters Dwarf?”

“We were told to speak with the owner for rooms?” Dori says, offering her a charming smile. She raises an eyebrow.

“You’re looking at her. How many you need?”

“Five, if possible. We are a large party.” Dori glances over at Balin for confirmation, but the other Dwarf doesn’t look up from where he is digging in his heavy coat for his money pouch.

The Woman tosses her hair back and raises an eyebrow. “We’ve five, no problem. Busy downstairs, but no trading parties the last few days.” She hesitates before continuing. “Does the name ‘Ai’ mean anything to you, by any chance?”

Balin frowns and shook his head, not looking up from his search, but Dori freezes.

“Why?” Balin questions, finally finding the pouch and scowling at it. She shrugs.

“Dwarf by that name came ‘round asking if a large party of Dwarves had been through of late. Asked to be told if one did.”

“Is he still here?” Dori asks urgently, ignoring the surprised look Balin shoots at him.

The bartender nods, distracted by a man down near the other end of the bar pointedly waving an empty mug in her direction.

“Might we know the room?” Balin requests politely, shooting a quelling look at Dori. He stares mulishly back.

“He’s over in the corner, actually.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of one of the corners, completely missing their exchange. “It’s ten silver a room a night. D’you want Hobbit-sized or Man-sized?”

“Four Man and a Hobbit, if you will. One is for Hobbits.”

She smiles, attention clearly elsewhere, and reaches in her pocket for five keys.

“Hobbit’s the brass key, all others are iron. Rooms six, and eleven through fourteen. ‘Ave a good evenin’, pardon me-“ She hurries off and Dori whirls around, staring frantically around the crowded room.

“Dori, what’s going on-“ Balin starts, but Dori completely ignores him in favor of weaving his way through the thick crowd toward the corner he owner had gestured to. “Dori-“

Dori stops abruptly before a short, hooded figure and glares viciously.

“ _Ai_?”

The hood moves slowly as the person lifts their head to look at him.

“Hello, Dori.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dori sees Balin frown, likely trying to place the voice. Once again, he ignores him.

“I can’t believe you. I just- I really can’t-“ He stutters to a halt, utterly speechless with indignation. He settles for continuing to glare.

“Rather a public place for such a confrontation, don’t you think?” The wry amusement in the figure’s voice only angers Dori further. “Perhaps if you’ll retrieve those who will know who I am, we can hold this little meeting somewhere a little more private. Room sixteen, end of the hall. I’ll meet you there.”

Without waiting for a response, the figure stands and melts into the crowd, leaving Dori to stand there fuming.

Balin blinks and stares at him.

“Who…?”

Dori scowls even harder.

“Get Thorin and Dwalin. Meet me outside the room, do not go in without me.”

Dori storms off, leaving Balin to stare after him dumbly.

* * *

“Dori, what is going on-“ Thorin tries to ask as the silver-haired Dwarf stomps up, a terrified-looking Ori in tow, but a fierce scowl stops his words in their tracks.

Dori knocks.

“It’s unlocked,” a quiet voice calls from within.

Ori’s face crumples and Dwalin gasps roughly. Thorin frowns in confusion as Dori pushes inside, and they trail after him rather reluctantly.

The door shuts behind him, and without preamble Dori snaps, “Explain.”

The figure seated in the shadows of the room stands and slowly makes their way into the candlelight, drawing their hood back in the process.

Ori releases a choked sob and flings himself into Nori’s arms. Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin all gape.

“Nori.” Dwalin says, sounding rather teary himself. “You look… different.”

He does, Balin thinks with no small amount of horror, and not in a good way. Dwarfish hair grows slowly, and by the length of Nori’s beard it had been shaved off in recent months and is only just beginning to grow back. His hair, not up in the distinctive peaks Balin remembers from the days with the Company, is oddly streaked with black and tied in a simple braid down his back.

Balin has never seen him with short eyebrows.

The skin around his eyes, too, is tinted black in a way that made Balin think of kohl, and upon further inspection his clothes were of a distinctly Southern style.

“You’ve been in the South, Nori,” Balin says mildly, trying to dismiss his odd appearance.

“I have,” Nori admits, clutching at his younger brother in a way that contradicts his calmly amused expression.

“You shaved it off?” Dori screeches, nearly quaking with rage. Nori’s expression doesn’t change.

“Actually, they did it for me. The…” Nori seems to be searching for a word, “…warlord, I suppose would be the closest term in Common, has a habit of acquiring playthings. The guards thought I’d make a good addition to his collection.”

“Collection?” Balin can’t help asking, a mild horror building in the back of his mind. Ori pulls back from Nori’s embrace, staring at his older brother in horror, and murmurs a word in a smooth foreign language that sounds like beautiful nonsense. Nori nods gravely, amusement finally falling from his face. Ori makes a sound reminiscent of a wounded kitten.

“What-?” Thorin begins, but Ori cuts him off harshly.

“Like a courtesan, but with more rape and imprisonment.”

“A jeweled cage,” Nori elaborates in a forcibly even tone. “No better than a death sentence.”

“What were you even doing in those parts of the South, Nori?” Ori asks, fierce scowl belayed by the tremble in his voice. “You couldn’t stick to the coast?”

Nori shrugs. “We all have our memories, correct?”

They all nod, though Dori offers little more than a harsh little jerk of his head. Nori nods sharply.

“That’s why I used the name Ai, Dori,” he offers. “I had no way of knowing who had joined us on this little quest and who hadn’t.”

Dori doesn’t actually look any less thunderous. Nori meets his eyes for a moment before looking away.  
“The last time ‘round, I was there stealing a necklace with my partner at the time. Good person. Too kind for their own good. We’d been there for a month, lying low, before we sprung. But someone… someone noticed something they shouldn’t’ve. Guards came after us, and in that city, ‘deadly force’ is automatic and unavoidable.”

He sighs heavily, staring fixedly at the ground.

“The last time, my partner hesitated. I don’t know why. I never got the chance to ask. The guards killed them then and there, with hardly a word.”

He sits down heavily, all pretenses discarded. “I fled. Dumped that cursed necklace in the wild sands of the desert to be buried until the end of time. Ran all the way back to the Blue Mountains, where my outraged older brother signed me up to go on Thorin Oakenshield’s mad quest in order to ‘straighten me out’. Rather than disappear, I followed him. I’d have gone anywhere that would have taken my mind off the guilt.”

They all stare at him. Ori’s hands snake down to clasp one of his brother’s. Nori squeezes them fiercely.

“This time, I woke up with the necklace in my hand and the guards behind me. I was disoriented, confused, and utterly helpless.”

Dwalin makes an indiscernible sound. Balin means to shoot a concerned look his way, but finds he can’t tear his gaze from Nori’s face.

“They decided, as I dangled from their grasp, that I was pretty, so they were going to offer me to the warlord before they killed me, see if he wanted me. Lucky for me, he had just left on what they were calling a ‘diplomatic mission,’ and he wouldn’t return for months. I was tossed in a cell with someone in a similar situation, and we spent the next couple of months were dedicated to working out a plan to break out.”

A bitter smile twists its way onto his freckled face. “Hence, my lateness.”

They are all silent for a moment. None of them move.

Without saying a word, Dori steps forward and pulled the red-head into a fierce embrace. Nori squeaks, and his back cracks audibly.

“You died, Nori,” Dori chokes out quietly. “You died out on that battlefield, and if I hadn’t stumbled across your bloody body you’d have been buried anonymous and I’d have never known what happened to you…”

Nori wraps his arms around his brother and looked away.

“Why?” Dori pleads. “Just tell me, why? Why didn’t you come to me before the battle? You were gone, Nori, for fifty years not a word, not a whisper, no hint at all that you were alive!” Dori pushes him away, fury sparking in his eyes again. “Why did you leave?”

Nori closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“I had to, Dori. You know I did.”

“Then why did you come back?” Dori challenges, voice breaking with emotion. Nori finally meets his gaze.

“The same reason I left. I had to protect you. All of you. Dáin, Thorin, you, Dwalin, Bofur, Bomber, Glóin, Gimrís, Gimli…” He chokes back a sob, staring at the rough wood of the table as though it would dry his eyes. “I couldn’t protect Ori. Couldn’t save any of them. But I could do whatever I could to save you.”

“Ori…” Dori frowns, some of the anger leaving his face in favor of confusion. “How did you know he was dead?”

Ori speaks up before Nori can respond.

“He tried to tell us not to go.” Ori watches his hands, twisted together in his lap, so he doesn’t have to look at his brother. “Tried to get us out even before we went in.”

Balin heaves a heavy sigh of regret, drawing their attention to himself. He meets Dori’s watery gaze, nearly drowning in guilt.

“We did not listen,” he admits. “We had long since closed our eyes and ears to sense. We did not want to listen.”

Nori nods. “I knew that you had not fled. I had people watching the roads. When I went back, one last time… the bodies were not fresh, but I could recognize goblin arrows. You would not have left them to rot. Some of them were kin. Moria was quiet.” A mirthless smile quirks his lips. “As a tomb. I dared not venture farther in to search for your bodies. One Dwarf against an army of goblins is a mission doomed to fail, no matter the Dwarf.”

Again, silence prevails. Unexpectedly, this time Thorin is the one to break it with a single, icy word.

“Moria?”

Balin winces.

“Ah... yes. That was rather what I was looking to avoid explaining to you.”

“We’ll need Merry and Pippin for this, Thorin,” says Dwalin. “They’re the only ones who know the end of this story.”

Dori nods sharply. “I’ll go fetch them. Much as Bilbo deserves to hear this too, I wish to avoid drawing too much attention from the rest of the Company.”

“Merry and Pippin?” Nori asks as Dori sweeps out. “The young Hobbits who accompanied Bilbo’s nephew and Gimli and their party on their great mission?”

Dwalin lifts an eyebrow. “You seem to know a great deal more about their mission than most, Nori. Just what were you doing all those years?”

Nori shakes his head. “A tale Dori deserves to hear, more than anyone. But Merry and Pippin- they were barely more than children when they accompanied the Fellowship. How could they be here?”

“Valar interference, as far as I can tell. I’m guessing you were offered a choice, same as us, laddie.” Balin says.

“I was.” Nori agrees. “But when I say they were young, I mean it, and young by Hobbit standards. Pippin hadn’t even reached his majority.”

“Perhaps the entirety of their company was offered the choice. Those who might make a difference, perhaps?” Balin offers.

Nori freezes. “Yes. Those who might... make a difference. Dwalin...”

Dwalin arches inquisitive eyebrows at him.

“Do you suppose...”

Dwalin frowns, puzzled, then a look of worry overtook his face. 

“Oh... that’s not good.”

“Not good at all,” Nori agrees. “Did you see him before you left the Blue Mountains?”

“Not... as such.”

“Who are you talking about, Dwalin, Nori?” Balin asks, mildly irritated.

“No one,” Dwalin rushes to say, shooting a quelling look in Nori’s direction. “It’s complicated. If it comes up, it will, but it’s not something we can prepare for. Drop it, for now, sorry for bringing it up in your company.”

Balin gives a disgruntled little huff, but before he can say anything else, the door opens and Merry and Pippin are ushered in by Dori.

“What- no, seriously, Master Dori, please just tell us why you need us,” Merry is saying.

“Moria.” Dwalin rumbles. Both Hobbits freeze.

“Ah.”

“What do you know of it, lads?” Thorin questions, tone gentling. Merry and Pippin exchange glances.

“Well...” Pippin begins, “we only really know the end of it, see.”

“And only I know the beginning,” admits Balin heavily. “Even the very beginning. What do you know of Moria, lads?”

Merry frowns. “Not a lot. Gimli did not like to speak of it, after... well. He told us a few tales, but beyond the... the splendor and such, we know naught of its history or the like.”

Balin nods.

“Moria- Khazad-dûm- was founded by our ancestor, Durin the First.”

“He’s the one they call Deathless, yes? And the seventh incarnation was to bring about the golden age of the Dwarves?” Pippin asks. Thorin raises an eyebrow.

“Rather more than most Hobbits- or indeed Men- would know about Durin.”

Pippin shrugs. “Yes, well. I met wee Durin the Seventh briefly. Stonehelm’s lad. I was very old at the time, you understand, and a bit absent besides. And he was very young indeed, by your standards. I fear I didn’t live anywhere near long enough to watch the prophecies be fulfilled.”

“Off-topic,” Nori reminds them. “Moria.”

“Right,” Balin says. “For generations, it remained in the hands of our ancestors- thriving, the greatest of the kingdoms of the Dwarrows. And then-“

“The Balrog awakened,” Pippin says quietly. Balin raises one bushy eyebrow.

“Why, yes. ‘Twas what drove our people from Khazad-dûm. It killed Dáin the First, and scattered the rest of our people as they fled. Thrór, Thorin’s grandfather, led us to Erebor. His brother Grór settled the Iron Hills, and raised a son who would eventually give birth to King Dáin the Second, the Dwarf who ruled the Erebor you knew.”

“Dáin died in the Battle of Dale,” Merry offers. “At the side of the King of Dale. I think you knew his ancestor, I seem to recall him appearing in Bilbo’s stories- Bard? The Bowman?”

“Aye, he who shall eventually become the first king of the rebuild Dale,” Dwalin says. “‘Twas a great blow, to lose Dáin, but Stonehelm was a good king.”

“The first attempt to retake Khazad-dûm was the Battle of Azanulbizar, that which claimed the life of Thrór, and many more besides, including our father, and Thorin’s young brother, Frerin.” Balin continues. They all very carefully do not look at Thorin. “And that which gave Thorin his name. Oakenshield.”

“I’ve heard that one many a time,” Pippin says. “Bilbo always told the greatest of his tales when you were the focus, Master Thorin.”

“For decades, we left it untouched. But...”

“I was bored, and tired,” Ori interjects, sounding exhausted, “And so bloody _angry_ , at everything. I talked Balin into it- some horseshit about how we took Erebor back, why should Khazad-dûm be any different- and we charged off blind.”

“Everyone tried to stop us- Dáin, Dís, Dwalin and Dori. But we would not listen.” Balin says quietly.

“We all died there. Balin was shot by an orc before Mirrormere five years in. The rest of us fell shortly after.” Ori says, looking away.

“We came across them a good many years later.” Pippin says. “We had no choice- we had to pass through the mountains, and Caradhras was completely impassible. We thought Moria would be the lesser of two evils.”

“We had no chance of surviving Caradhras, but Moria nearly killed us all too.” Merry adds. “Gandalf died, there, for a while.”

“Died?” Balin gasps, even as Thorin frowns.

“Awhile?” He asks. Pippin shrugs.

“Some nonsense about being revived or somesuch. He killed the Balrog, but fell down what seemed to be a bottomless chasm in the process. Appeared a month or so later as ‘Gandalf the White’.”  
“How did you escape?” Thorin says, a touch of leftover concern in his words. Merry laughs a little.

“By being very slightly faster than the Orcs.”

* * *

Bilbo raises an eyebrow at Thorin as he settles into the seat beside him.

“And where did you lot disappear to?”

Thorin scowls.

“A long-overdue chat about Moria, and Balin being an idiot.” His expression softens slightly as he glances toward where Dori has a firm grip on the dark cloak of the hooded stranger who had sat down at their table. “And retrieving a stray member of our company.”

“Who’s this, then?” Bofur calls, brandishing a mug in Dori’s direction. “Master Tall-Dark-and Wearing-Far-Too-Many-Layers?”

The stranger snorts and lowers his hood without hesitation, flashing an easy smile at Bofur.

“Not particularly tall actually, Bofur, though I suppose the rest is not inaccurate.”

Nori smiles at them all, hair very different but face exactly as Bilbo remembers. He smiles, relieved, as Bofur lets out an ecstatic noise and tosses himself at the redhead, pounding at his back in glee.

“Where’ve you been, you crazy bastard? When’d you sign up?”

Nori’s smile doesn’t falter.

“A tale for later, I’m afraid, but I am glad to see you!”

“And who’s this?” Glóin rumbles, frowning gently at them. Nori breaks away from Bofur’s enthusiastic embrace to offer a bow to him.

“Nori son of Kori, at your service.”

Glóin harrumphs. “Glóin son of Gróin, at yours. This here’s my brother Óin.”

Óin looks up from his bag at the mention of his name, having been clearly not listening, and blinks at them. Glóin nods pointedly in Nori’s direction and repeats the redhead’s name clearly. Óin considers this, nod, then clearly dismisses them all in favor of continuing to dig though his bag. 

Glóin shrugs vaguely apologetically at Nori, but he waves him off.

“And who are these fine lads?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at a newly-appeared Merry and Pippin. Bilbo answered for him before they could open their mouths, rather impressed at his acting skills.

“My cousins Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took.”

Nori offers them a mischievous smirk.

“Cousins, eh? Never met any of your family before, Bilbo my friend. Nori son of Kori”

“Call me Merry,” Merry chirps. “And he’s Pippin. Only time anyone uses our full names is if someone’s being formal or Auntie Daisy’s decided we’ve wrecked her garden again.”

“To be fair, she’s usually right,” Pippin says, unashamed. Merry shrugs in agreement. “Anyway, it’s more like:” he adopts a shrill, outraged tone, “ _Kalimac Brandagamba_!”

They all wince as the ‘i’ hit a register Pippin’s vocal cords should not have been capable of reaching. Several people nearby flinch.

Merry scowls at him and adopts a low, growling voice. “ _Razanur Tûk_ ,” he retaliates, rolling his ‘r’s powerfully. Pippin returns the scowl.

“Oh, don’t you bring Uncle Cornelian into this.”

“You started it!”

“You were the one who brought up Aunt Daisy!”

“Aunt Daisy isn’t brought up, she’s just always there. Lurking. _Waiting_.”

As the boys descended into delighted squabbles, Balin leans over to Bilbo.

“Should I interrupt now to ask for the song, or let them battle it out first?”

Bilbo raises an amused eyebrow.

“Wait, definitely. Or you’ll find yourself dragged into an argument about people you’ve never met, with no idea what’s going on, yet somehow defending Uncle Something-or-Other as though you’ve known him you whole life.”

Balin chuckles. “I take it this has happened before?”

Bilbo sighs. “More times than I can count, old friend. More times than I can count.”< hr/>

At some point, Óin had dropped into a doze despite the noise of the tavern, lulled by the warmth of the roaring fires and the familiar sound of squabbling. He awoke abruptly as Glóin elbowed him in the ribs none-too-gently.

“You’re growing old, Brother,” Glóin teases, a playful smile mostly concealed beneath his beard. Óin huffs, straightening his aching back.

“I’ll live longer than you, pipsqueak, mark my words.”

Balin’s voice prompts both of them to look over at where the older Dwarf sits near his own brother.

“I hear tell there is a song about those dreaded Barrow-downs, laddies,” Balin is saying to Merry and Pippin. “As a scholar, I wouldn’t mind hearing it, if you’d be willing.”

The Dwarves and many of the nearby Men go quiet, all their eyes on the young Hobbits. Pippin offers a somewhat strained smile, and beside Óin his brother shifts in a protective manner Óin recognizes well.

“Of course, Master Balin,” Pippin answers, none of his unwillingness audible in his voice. “We’d be happy to.”

Merry shifts in his seat, settling in, and exchanges glances with the other two Hobbits. Óin lifts his ear trumpet.

_“Of them my mother said to me:_  
‘Child, you must beware,  
For long have lords and mighty kings  
Been laid to rest in there.’” 

Merry’s voice is quiet, syllables slow. A few more Men nearby fall silent.

Pippin picks up the next verse, gaze fixed on the fire.

_“My father told me yesterday:_  
‘My child, listen well.  
Cruel and cursed are kings and queens  
In Barrow-downs which dwell.’” 

A few of the nearby Men and Women add their voices to the chorus.

_“Oh, the mightiest have everything_  
But once they heed that call,  
The flight that once took them so high  
Leaves farther still to fall.” 

A young Woman picks up the next verse, rather than one of the Hobbits. Her face is deadly serious.

_“Family living far and near_  
Said, “Cousin, promise me:  
Be careful near the hills and dells  
Upon the path to Bree.’” 

A Man hidden by the crowd offers the next verse, his rumbling voice silencing the rest of the inn.

_“My neighbor whispered in the dark_  
‘Near Barrows keep your head  
And should you have cause to go past  
Beware the wand’ring dead.’” 

Nearly the whole inn chimes in for the second chorus. Their voices fill the room eerily. Óin puts down his trumpet.

_“Oh, the mightiest have everything_  
But once they heed that call,  
The flight that once took them so high  
Leaves farther still to fall.” 

The voices fall away again, leaving the inn owner’s voice alone.

_“And so, these words I say to you:_  
Beyond the forest woken  
There lie the dead of ages past  
Their hearts and spirits broken.” 

There was a beat of silence- Óin raises his trumpet once again- before Bilbo adds the last verse, quiet enough that Óin has to strain to hear him even with aid.

_“Heed these words, my dearest friend:_  
Beware the tombs of Men  
For should you wander into them  
You’ll never leave again.” 

Silence reigns for a long moment before quiet conversations begin starting up again and the servers begin to once again pass around food and drink.

“’Tis indeed a cultural song, I see. There is much fear surrounding this great tomb of Arnor.”

Óin stops listening as Glóin once again elbows him in the ribs. He glares balefully at him.

“What?”

“Help me get Pippin alone. Or alone with Merry. Either way works.”

Óin blinks.

“The little one?”

Glóin rolls his eyes.

“Yes, the little one. I need to talk to him, help me out Brother.”

Óin rolls his eyes in return. “Oh, for the love of Mahal… Peregrin!”

The little Hobbit looks up, eyes wide.

“You’ve been cradling that wrist something terrible since you got back. Come to the room, let me take a look at it.”

All the Dwarves turn to stare at Pippin as he flushes.

“You’re injured, laddie? Why didn’t you say anything?” Dwalin questions gruffly. Pippin shrugs, still red.

“It’s not badly injured, and I’ve had a lot of practice tending to my own injuries. It’s fine. I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

“I’ll be taking a look at it all the same, laddie,” Óin tells him sternly, heaving himself to his feet. “Let’s go.’

He strides briskly away, not looking back to check if they were following. < hr/>

“Now, Master Peregrin,” Glóin begins as Óin kneels before a seated Pippin to inspect his wrist. “Time for that little chat Master Meriadoc asked me to put off.”

Pippin visibly swallows a groan.

“Yes, Master Glóin, I am underage. I fear the story behind my presence on this quest is long and difficult, and is accompanied by more than a little pain. I shall tell the tale, if you wish, but I want you to go into this understanding that I did not make this choice lightly.”

Óin stares at this serious young Hobbit, so different from the carefree lad of an hour before. Pippin smiles down at him, a touch of sadness coloring his gaze. Behind Óin, his brother shifts.

“I’ve underaged children I left behind for this quest, though both desperately wished to come. Tell me why you are different from them.”

Pippin sighs.

“All right. Well, to begin with, I’ll need to explain how the Shire is… ruled, I suppose is the term. Managed. There are four positions of power, if you include Buckland.”

“Buckland isn’t actually considered part of the Shire,” Merry offers before either brother could ask. “It’s basically considered its own entity, separate from both the Shire and Bree.”

Pippin nods.

“Mayor of Michel Delving, Master of Buckland, Thain of the Shire, and the various heads of families. It’d take an age to list them all. Currently, my cousin Fortinbras is both Thain and head of the Tooks, and therefore has probably the most power of the group.

“The Thain is head of the Bounders, the closest thing we have to a military, and does basically everything in the Shire but settle disputes outside of the Took family.”

“That’s the Mayor’s job.” Merry adds, then snorts. “There’s a reason there’s such a high turnover rate, and it’s not the stresses of being Postmaster.”

Pippin nods again, expression filled with long-suffering exasperation. “Hobbits can’t go a bloody day without starting a feud, I swear. My family hasn’t spoken to any member of the Lightfoot family in over a hundred years, though no one remembers why except Grandmother, who is incredibly old and completely senile. Whenever someone tries to ask about it, she just cackles about chickens.”

Óin and Glóin stare blankly at him, and he shrugs.

“Grandfather was one hundred and thirty when he died. Grandmother is nearing one thirty-five. We think she’s held out these last twenty-one years out of pure spite.”

Glóin frowns, confused.

“Spite?”

“According to my dad, Grandfather and Grandmother’s entire relationship revolved around competitions. She couldn’t let him beat her age-wise.”

Óin snorts. “I certainly know Dwarves like that. But we’re getting sidetracked, lad, and there’s a pint of ale with my name on it out there, so it’s best if we move on.”

Pippin smiles, not embarrassed by his distraction in the least. “Naturally. Not a good idea to keep a Dwarf from his ale.” There is a hint of fondness in his voice that is rather too complicated for Óin to want to pick apart. 

“Anyway. Where was I?”

“Pip’s cousin is Thain at the moment. Has been for about two years now, since his Da died. He has a son, but Ferumbras doesn't turn twenty-five until Winterfilth and won’t be eligible until then,” Merry explained.

Glóin frowns. “You come of age at twenty-five?”

“No, Hobbits come of age at thirty-three. This is relevant, hang on,” Pippin hushes. Merry raises an amused eyebrow.

“Anyhow, since Pip’s Da died,” Óin catches Pippin’s suppressed wince and feels a pang of sympathy, “that leaves his older brother Adalgrim as first in line and Pippin as second.”

“The thing is,” Pippin cuts in before Merry can continue. “There’s this archaic law that says anyone who is third in line or higher must either remove themselves from the line of succession entirely or lock themselves into it before they turn twenty-five, or they’re locked into it until they either become Thain or they’re bumped lower than third.”

“‘Locked in’, what does that mean?” Glóin asks.

“It means that he can never be more than a day away at any time, in case everyone else is killed or dies unexpectedly. It means he can’t get married or have children without the express permission of the Thain.” Merry’s face is closed off, just a hint of anger showing though. He seems to be building up to a tirade, but Pippin cuts him off.

“It means a lot of things, and there are a lot of reasons I’d rather saw my own leg off than be Thain. Call me a coward if you will, but I don’t want to be in that position again. But the only way to break the commitment is to leave, and the other side of that coin is that I can never go back.”

Both Dwarves gape at him. He stares coldly at the floor, his arm twitching in Óin’s grasp.

Merry sighs quietly. “Our stance on the matter is: if he is considered old enough at twenty-five to lock himself into Thainship, then he’s old enough at twenty-nine to make his own decisions.”

Pippin lifts his wrist out of Óin’s lax hand gently and sighs.

“Thank you, Master Óin. The wrappings feel much more secure. We’d best get you back to your ale now, hadn’t we?”

Óin blinks at Pippin’s wrist in mild surprise, wondering when he’d re-wrapped it. He exchanges a somewhat numb glance with his brother as the Hobbits stood, and trailed after them as they left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ My Tumblr exists.](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/)


	7. They Do Not See What Lies Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trolls and a sense of foreboding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rewritten as of 2/5/18.

It is very early indeed when the Company makes their way out of Bree’s south gate, complaints muffled only by exhaustion and the thick fog which had descended during the wee hours of the morning. Just at the edge of his hearing, Bilbo catches Kíli muttering to his brother.

“I can’t believe people live with this fog, it’s awful.”

“Can’t see the pony’s arse in front of me,” Fíli grunts in agreement. “’N I feel as if I’ve been dunked in ice-melt.”

“Isn’t Bree-fog lovely?” Bilbo calls to them, pulling as much cheer as he could muster into his tone. He’s fairly certain he sounds rather demented. “Happens every morning, year-round.”

Kíli and Fíli sport identical horrified looks when he glances back at them.

“You should see it in winter,” Merry grumbles, nudging his pony up beside the brothers. “So thick y’can’t see your hand in front of your face, ’s like swimming in muddy water. So humid y’feel you’ll choke on it, ’n colder ’n bloody Caradhras.”

“Halt!” Thorin calls from the front, barely audible. Bilbo exchanges glances with Merry and they both nudge their ponies up to the head of the line.

A remarkably short Hobbit stands squinting up at Thorin suspiciously. Thorin simply stares back, looking rather uncomfortable.

“Sweetbriar!” Merry calls, surprise coloring his tone. “What’re you doing here?”

She turns to him and slumps in relief.

“Oh, thank fuck. I was beginnin’ to think I’d missed you altogether. Auntie’d have ripped me a new one.”

Merry snorts and slips from his pony as Pippin and Gandalf joined them at the front.

“What are you doing here, Bri? Why’re you looking for me?”

“Auntie knew damn well you aren’t gonna stop in Staddle to see her, even though you’ve been promising to for over a year now.” She shoots him a look. He shrugs.

“You’d do it too if you didn’t live two doors away.”

She stares at him for a moment more before shrugging in unashamed acknowledgment.

“Fair enough. Anyway, Auntie’s been saving this for when you finally went off on an adventure. Says she’s not got anyone else to shove it off on, so it might as well be you and _Raza_.”

From beneath her cloak she pulls two daggers, glinting despite the total lack of light in the vicinity. Merry gapes at them, and Pippin releases a soft but inventive curse as he slips from his pony to stare at them.

“Those blades were lost,” Merry says quietly, nearly shaking.

“Remarkable what can be found,” Sweetbriar says, brow cocked, “if’n y’know where to look.”

Merry and Pippin took a dagger each and exchange overwhelmed looks.

“All right, what the bloody fuck are those?” Bilbo snaps, tired of their awestruck gawping.

“The Daggers of Myth,” Nori says quietly from behind him, making Bilbo jump violently. Thorin raises an eyebrow.

“Not a terrific name, I must confess.”

To everyone’s surprise, it was Gandalf who shakes his head. “‘Myth’ is a rough translation of the name of she who bore the daggers. Her true name was either lost to time or was never known to begin with.”’

“She actually existed?” Nori breathes, awe in his voice. Gandalf nods.

“Who was she?” Mild irritation had crept into Thorin’s tone. Again, Gandalf answers.

“The first thief. How, my dear Hobbit, did you ever find those blades?”

Sweetbriar smiles slowly, pulling her cloak tight around her. “Must keep some professional secrets, Master Gandalf. Anyway, it weren’t me who found ‘em. Got to ask Auntie that.”

Gandalf raises a bushy eyebrow.

“And who might she be?”

She grins slyly.

“Why, Master Gandalf- don’t you know? No one knows who Auntie is.”

He opens his mouth to question her further, but before he can, she turns on her heel and disappears into the fog.

Merry and Pippin seem to have shaken off their stupor and are climbing back on their ponies when Gandalf rounds on them.

“You know this ‘Auntie,’ Master Meriadoc?”

Merry raises an eyebrow. “You heard Sweetbriar, Master Gandalf. No one knows who Auntie is.”

“Truth be told, she’s probably actually multiple people,” Pippin says, casually adjusting his reins. “Merry and I think that all of the major families have one, that it’s a title that is passed down.”

“There are far more thieves than Aunties, though, and for the most part people wouldn’t know they were thieves to begin with.” Merry shrugs and nudges his pony forward, forcing them into motion to keep up. “Safer just to call her ‘Auntie’ and follow her orders. Less things get broken or go missing that way.”

Merry catches a sly smirk twisting Nori’s lips as he turns back to face the road. Merry suppresses one of his own.< hr/>

They had somehow made it through the Lone Lands without incident, although when Bilbo mentions this quietly to Pippin he snorts and tells him that a solid week of rain is not considered 'without incident.' Regardless, Bilbo is trying not to think about it too hard for fear of jinxing them.

"We're nearing the farmhouse," Nori murmurs to him, frowning slightly, before his expression slips into a slyly amused smirk. "Don't suppose you have a plan to handle the trolls, my dear Hobbit?"

Bilbo smiles innocently.

"Why, Nori, you act as though I _plot_."

"You do plot, you daft old bugger," Nori snorts. "You're just less obvious about it than Balin."

Bilbo laughs, inclining his head in unashamed admittance.

"They're already taken care of, actually. Just need to lead this sorry, sodden lot to the cave to pick up their shiny swords and then head on to Rivendell."

Nori grins playfully. "Their shiny swords and your lovely little letter opener, you mean. You couldn't find it, could you?"

Bilbo sniffs haughtily and looks away, refusing to answer. Nori chortles loudly.

"Ah, fear not, Bilbo. It will be found. Truthfully, I just want to know how three Hobbits managed to defeat three Mountain Trolls without being skinned and boiled."

"What?!" Bofur exclaims from in front of them, whipping around to give them a wide-eyed stare. As one, the rest of the Company turns to look in the direction of his outburst.

"Thank you, Nori," Bilbo manages through gritted teeth, "for your immensely helpful contribution to the conversation."

Nori carries on grinning unrepentantly as Bofur reins his pony in to fall in line with them.

"Now, now, what's this I hear about Hobbits defeating Mountain Trolls? Because this sounds like a story I absolutely have to hear."

"It is not much of a story, I fear, Master Bofur. All we did was wait until it was near dawn and then keep them busy long enough for the sun to rise and turn them to stone."

"Keep them busy?" Bofur repeats incredulously. "How do you keep a Troll busy?"

Bilbo sniffs and glares at Nori, who had begun chortling again. "By having three different Hobbits tell three different Trolls that one of the others said nasty things about them. It worked rather well, I'd say. No one got hurt, and we disposed of some rather nasty Trolls who had been preying on travelers."

"What were you doing up in the mountains anyhow, Master Baggins?" Bofur questions, an amused smile pulling at his lips.

Bilbo shrugs.

"I wasn't. It was around here, actually, which is why it came up. It was some time ago." Bilbo taps his chin theatrically, playing at thoughtfulness. "We never did find their cave, come to think of it."

Nori shoots him a supremely amused look as Bofur's eyes lit up with excitement. He deflates a moment later as a thought occurs to him.

"Ach, Master Thorin'd never let us look for it, I fear. Some other adventurer'll have to find it."

Bilbo snorts.

"Thorin!" He calls up to the front, where Thorin had long since turned back to face the road but Gandalf was still watching with interest. The Dwarf king does not stop, but he does twist around in his saddle to look back again. "There's a lovely old Troll den somewhere nearby. I could never find it, but I'm sure one of you can. It's nearly evening anyhow- we could make camp near the abandoned farmhouse just ahead and have a little treasure hunt to cap off the day?"

Thorin raises an eyebrow, visibly amused.

"And this Troll den is Troll-free?"

Bilbo grins at him as they come within sight of the weathered farmhouse.

"Guaranteed. Killed them ourselves."

Gandalf's bushy eyebrows nearly hit his hairline, and Balin twists around to stare at him.

"Is that what you were coming back from doing when we met on the road, Bilbo? No wonder you refused to tell me." He shook his head exasperatedly as he brought his pony to a stop and slid from his back. "No bloody wonder." < hr/>

 

Thorin glowers at Gandalf, wishing desperately that he was searching for the Troll cave with his delighted company instead of dealing with a prickly Wizard with something to prove.

Gandalf glowers right back.

"We have a map that we cannot read, Thorin Oakenshield, and Rivendell is home to one of the few in Middle Earth who may be able to read it for us. It seems fairly clear to me!"

"So we should subject ourselves to ridicule for the sake of some pretty letters? You and I both know that it is painfully obvious what we are planning to do, and there is no chance Elrond will be willing to allow us to leave after he sees that map!"

"We will simply tell him we are interested in it for purely academic purposes-"

Thorin snorts in disbelief. "He is thousands of years old, Master Gandalf, and no fool besides. There is no hiding our purpose, and attempting to deceive a lord of Elves will do far more harm than good."

"Gandalf," Bilbo interrupts as the Wizard opens his mouth to argue, "the path Thorin has set us through the mountains can only be accessed through Rivendell."

Gandalf turns to stare at the Hobbit, who is lounging against a nearby tree and smirking at him. Thorin releases a heavy sigh.

"Unfortunately."

"Why were you arguing with me at all?" Gandalf exclaims, irritated.

"Because I don't actually want to, I just know we have to. And lying to Elrond will only make our trip more miserable. I don't particularly want to sneak out on that horrific path in the middle of the night."

Bilbo cuts in again before they can become embroiled once more in the argument.

"I actually came to tell you that Bofur's found the cave. He says there's a stash of 'bloody old swords' you might want to come have a look at."

Gandalf draws himself up to his full height with a huff and stalks off without another word. Thorin rolls his eyes and follows, with Bilbo following and complaining exasperatedly that they didn't even know where they were going.< hr/>

Bilbo gags heartily as they drew near the mouth of the cave and takes a large step back.

"I wouldn't go in there for every mushroom in Arda. You're on your own, Thorin."

With that firm statement, he turns and moves to where Merry and Pippin are already seated on the roots of a great evergreen. Thorin suppresses an amused smile and returns to pretending that the cave is not exactly as revolting as Bilbo made it out to be.

"Ah, there you are, Thorin," Balin says as he makes his way past the mouth of the den. "Good portion of gold coins in here, should come in handy. Glóin's stocking up on that, and he and Nori are muttering about sewing it into clothes, so I think that's fairly well covered. Beyond that, the only real thing of use in here are those swords. Fíli says they're too long for him, so we thought you and the Wizard might be interested."

Thorin nods in thanks and leads the way into the cave, Balin and a still-sulking Gandalf close behind him. He makes his careful way over to the sagging wooden rack containing the swords and inspects them carefully.

"Fine swords indeed," Thorin murmurs, running calloused fingers over Glamdring's dulled hilt before allowing them to close over Orcrist's and drawing it from the rack. "Of Elvish make. Very, very old."

Gandalf drops his offended scowl long enough to shoot him a surprised glance. Thorin ignores it.

"Fine swords indeed," Gandalf echoes as he lifts Glamdring.

Balin stumps up next to Thorin and nudges his side none-too-gently.

"We've removed everything of worth from this cesspit," his friend announces, giving their surroundings a sour look. "Everything we can carry anyhow. Let us be done with this wretched place."

Thorin nods sharply and turns to his company.

"Back to camp!"

As he glanced back from the cave mouth, he catches a glimpse of Gandalf stooping to brush off a familiar little sword, and suppresses a smile.< hr/>

Balin picks his way through various groups of rowdy Dwarves to plop himself down next to Bilbo where he sits carefully inspecting Sting. He waits patiently for the Hobbit to acknowledge him, pulling out his pipe and lighting it contentedly.

Bilbo startles slightly when he looks up and notices Balin, but doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by his sudden appearance.

"Giving your little sword a lot more attention then you did originally," Balin notes conversationally, careful to keep his voice quiet. Bilbo glances back at his sword.

"Mostly it's just strange to hold it again. I went decades without touching it, and then I gave it to... to Frodo. And then it was his, you know? It almost feels like it doesn't belong to me anymore."

Balin watches him carefully.

"You miss him terribly."

Bilbo nods, looking away from both Balin and the sword and his gaze landing on where Merry and Pippin sit laughing with Fíli and Kíli.

"He was like a son to me. For a while, there, he was all I had. The reason I kept going, you know? He needed me, so I needed to be there for him."

Balin turns to watch Merry and Pippin as well.

"You all sacrificed much, to come here."

Bilbo shrugs listlessly, not taking his eyes off his cousins.

"Merry and Pippin more than anyone. I think only they know all that they lost. I will be honest- I don't know why they came back. Perhaps once a hero of Middle Earth, always a hero. Perhaps they felt an obligation I never did. I, after all, am no hero. I fought in only one great battle in my life, and I spent much of that unconscious. It is just not who I am."

Balin turns his gaze back to Bilbo.

"You are a hero, Bilbo. Perhaps you aren't the hero of a great saga, like Merry and Pippin, but your story is no less captivating. A story for a homeland, rather than for a world."

Bilbo smiles at him. "I never wanted to be a hero, unless you count the wild dreams of a child. Until you lot burst into my life, all I wanted were my books and my armchair. You ruined me, you know. I could have been content as I was, never knowing anything different."

Balin watches him carefully. "But you wouldn't have been happy."

The Hobbit's smile falls. "No. No, I suppose that is the difference, isn't it? I would have been a very different Hobbit without you lot."

"A better Hobbit?"

Bilbo shrugs. "Who knows? I guess it doesn't really matter. What's done is done." A hint of a smile crosses his lips. "Even if it isn't."

Balin chuckles. "The memories are there, even if they never happened here. And it's the memories that matter, I think."

Bilbo setS Sting aside and pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. "I'm just glad I'm not alone."

Balin pats his shoulder gently.

"I think we all are, laddie."< hr/>

They set off early the next morning, and Bilbo can not shake a feeling that something is wrong. Merry rides up next to him and leans over precariously to mutter in his ear.

"Where is the brown Wizard? Radagast? I thought you said he came to warn Gandalf of Mirkwood..."

A chill goes down Bilbo's spine, and without a word to his cousin he spurrs his pony on to catch up with Thorin. The Dwarf offers him a confused glance.

"Radagast, the Wizard. Where is he? Why is he not here to speak with Gandalf?"

Thorin looks around in trepidation before understanding dawns.

"I think we're a day early."

Bilbo stares at him.

"Right. We didn't get taken by the Trolls so we're... a day early. Somehow, this does not seem good."

"We need to speed up." Thorin decides, turning to look at the Company. "Something is wrong."

Balin rides up to them as he catches Thorin's gaze.

"Thorin?"

"We're a day early, and something is wrong. Something we missed last time because the Trolls captured us," Bilbo tells him. "We need to go faster."

"It will alarm the others if we speed up for no discernible reason," Balin warns quietly.

"Instinct is a perfectly good reason," Bilbo tells him. "I'd rather hurry without cause than tarry and be dead, wouldn't you?"

Balin snorts. "I'll pass on the word. We're nearing the plains the wargs chased us across last time, though, and the others will remember and probably feel the same as you. Those who do not remember will not, though, be warned."

Thorin nods sharply. "Understood. But Bilbo is right. Something is wrong here."< hr/>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is me on Tumblr.](http://liketotessecret.tumblr.com/)


	8. Placeholder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Placeholder.

Placeholder so I don’t lose my lovely comments. Next chapter will go up here.


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**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Placeholder.

Placeholder to keep my lovely comments. The next chapters will replace these. No info has been lost, just consolidated.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Different Green](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3612645) by [EeveeFairySparkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EeveeFairySparkle/pseuds/EeveeFairySparkle)




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